\ 


THE  AUTHOR — MARTHA  L.   HOFFMAN 


POEMS 


BY 


MARTHA  L  HOFFMAN 


OF  THE 

{    UNIVERSITY  ) 

OF 

£*UF0«HVJL 


Bap  Co. 


Jf  rancisco 
1907 


Copyright  by 

NELLIE  F.  SANFORD 
1907 


BELCHER 


PREFACE 

The  Author  of  these  poems,  Martha  Lavinia  Hoffman,  was 
born  in  Jackson  Valley,  Amador  County,  California,  July  21, 
1865. 

When  three  years  of  age  her  parents  moved  to  Ukiah, 
California,  where  her  girlhood  and  young  womanhood  were 
spent,  and  where  she  received  inspiration  from  the  beauties  of 
nature  in  that,  and  adjacent  valleys,  for  many  of  her  poems. 

From  childhood  she  evinced  an  unusual  love  for  the  true 
and  the  beautiful. 

When  fourteen  years  of  age  she  was  stricken  with  a 
severe  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism  which  left  her  in 
frail  health  and  terminated  in  her  death,  from  consumption, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-five;  but  her  spirit  rose  above  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  frail  body  and  made  her  the  joy  and  the  life  of  the 
family. 

To  her  mother  she  was  devoted  and  the  two  were  the 
closest  companions  and  intimate  friends. 

One  thought  seemed  at  times  to  burden  her  mind  and 
cast  a  shadow  over  her  otherwise  sunny  nature  and  that  was, 
that  she  was  hindered  by  frail  health  from  doing  the  good 
that  her  heart  prompted  her  to. 

A  short 'time  before  her  death  she  said  to  her  mother  and 
sisters:  "I  want  my  poems  collected  and  printed,  they  may 
do  some  good,  and  you  know  it  is  the  only  way  I  have  of 
doing  good  in  the  world." 

And  so  we  dedicate  this  little  volume  to  those  who  read, 
hoping  that  some  thought  in  it  may  touch  the  heart  and  lift 
it  to  a  nearness  with  the  Divine,  the  source  of  all  that  is  true 
and  beautiful  and  good,  and  that  our  darling  sister  who  fell 
asleep  so  peacefully  and  with  such  sweet  content  may  some 
day  gather  an  abundant  harvest  of  precious  sheaves  to  lay 
at  the  feet  of  the  Saviour  she  loved. 

A  SISTER. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

The  Spirit  of  Poesy l 

r           The  Depths 4 

Trust 6 

The  Requiem  of  the  Dove 10 

Rain  on  the  Mown  Grass 14 

Fame 7 

)/ 

Song  of  the  Cricket 13 

Unwritten  History   . 17 
Angelus          .        ...       .       ...       .       ,       ,20 

Easter  Anthem         .       .       .       ...       .    ,  •.       .  22 

Rock  of  Ages      .        .       .       *       .       .        .       .       ,  .     f  24 

Accepted  and  Rejected    .       .       .....       .  26 

Experimentum    Crusis       .       .       .       .       ..      .       .       .  16 

Leonard  Lake    .      :v      .       .       .       .•..'•      .      ...  27 

California       .       .        ...       .       ....       .  28 

A  Prayer     .       .       .       .       .       .       .       ^;      .*"...       .  32 

To  the  Wild  Canaries      .       .      ..'      .        .        .       .       ,34 

Too  Late     .       .       .       .       *       .       .       .       .       .     _  f  31 

The  Cavern  by  the  Sea     .        .       .        .        .       .       .       .36 

Easter  Hymn    .       *       fc       .       .       /      ,       ...  42 

A  Bosom  Friend  .       *.       .       .       .       .       ..'       .       .        .  44 

Under  the"  Violets  Blue   .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  41 

Through  the  Golden  Gate      .  •     ..      "...       .       .       .  46 

The  Creation            \.       .       .       .               .       .       .       »  49 

Lily  of  the  Nile    .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  52 

Pacific  Grove     .       .       .       ..      .       .       .       •       .       •  54 

Going  Down  Hill        .       .       .       .      . .       .       ...       .  56 

The  True  Dignity  of  Labor    .        .'      .       .  .     ,'      ...  58 

TheWildDeer    .       .'      .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  60 

When  Sankey  Sang 62 

Baby  May     .       .       .       .       .       ....       .       .  63 

Josephine    .        .       .       .       .     -  .     :  .       .       .       •       •  64 

Bethlehem     ...       .       .  '     .       .       .       .       .       .  67 

Jn  the  Redwoods                    .       .       .       .       .       .       •  68 


[v] 


Unrequited  Love 71 

Boat  Riding  on  Blue  Lakes 75 

The  Song  of  Hope      .        .        .        .    ..  •        .        .        .  .76 

Connecting  Links     .        .        .        .     .".:;     "  ,     V V      .        .  78 

Beautiful  Thoughts    .       .    -.  Y      ".       v       .       .       .  -      79 

Under  the  Alders      .        ...     l.       Y       .....  80 

The  Coyote   .       .       .V      V     V      .     :.       ...  84 

Earth  and  Sky   .        .        .     *...'.     '.    ;    .        .        .  86 

The  Bugle  and  the  Battle   .      ,.      Y      .       •       •       .  .88 

The  Easter  Day        .        .        .        .       .      •."*      .        .        .  9X> 

Ambition's  Climax     .        .        •        •      •>       '•  .      •        •  •      92 

True  Nobility    .        .     k.        .     '.       .       .       .        .        .  98 

Lines  to  a  Maiden      .       .       .       .      .'.       .       .       ,  .    100 

Language  of  the  Stars    .-     .       .       .       .       .       .       .  102 

Alone      .        .        .        .               .        .        .        .        .        .  .     104 

On  the  Evening  Train 108 

The  Thief      .        .        .        .       > 112 

Think  for  Yourself   .        .       .     :.       .        .       .        .        .  83 

Christmas  Hymn         ,       .       '.        .        .        .       .    '   \  .114 

Consider  the  Lilies   .        .       .       .     :  .       .        .     '  .        .  116 

Sadness  and  Mirth    Y       .       ..      •       .      Y      Y  '     .  .    118 

The  Tomb  of  Man    .        .       .'      Y       .       .       .       .        .  120 

lone  Valley  V      .       V       .       .       .       .       Y      .       .  .    122 

Love's  Counterfeits          .       .        .     '.;'..       .        .  m 

The  Legend  of  Lover's  Leap    .       Y      .       .        .       .  .126 

The  Chambers  of  Imagery     .     "  .     '  ,       .     '  .        .       *  128 

California  Poppies      .       ...       '.       '.       .       •  •    T3O 

The  Broken  Wing    .        .       .       .        .       ...       .  131 

Banjo  Jim      .....        .       .        .       .       .  .    132 

Resurrection    '  .*      ,       .       .       .        .       .       .       .       .  134 

From  My  Window      .        .        .        .       .       .    .    .       .  .    137 

The  Lady  of  the  Wreck   .       .       .       ...      Y  -     .       .  138 

Nature     .       '.       .       .       .       .        .     '  .       .       .       .  .    142 

Dream  of  the  Summer  Land        .        .               «        .        .  143 

The   Bird's  Song        .       .        .       .       .        .       '.        .  •    149 

The  Years         .       .       ...       .     '.       »       .       .  I4S 


[vi] 


Song  of  the  Easter  Lilies 148 

Two  Christmas  Pictures 150 

The  Hermit 152 

/Bird  Songs 154 

[A  Divine  Codicil 156 

The  Grandmas 158 

Looking  Beyond 160 

The  Meadow  Lark ,        .        .  173 

Old  Modoc    .        .      ".."-"     .        .        '.       .        .    '    ,.;  \*      V  163 

To  the  Birds      .     .   .       ."      ,/     .       .       .    ..--:.-       4,  166 

Our  Better  Selves       ..       .       .       .      ..       >*•:.  r ..-;.-    ,•     •• ,  153 

The  Redeemer   .        .       .       .       .       ...   ;    v       .  170 

The  Grave  of  the  Suicide   .        .       .      ..      ...--.'•,.      ~  •,       .  174 

Tonight       .       *       .        .        .'.'.;...._  -V      .       .       .      ,.  177 

Lament  of  the  Fallen  Oak    ,.        .       .       .       .       ,       .  178 

The   Butterfly .  .       .  182 

Within  the  Vale  .      ,.       .    ;,  .      ..      -".       .       .       ,       .  183 

The  Patriot  Abroad       .       ..       .        ...       .       .;       *  184 

Baby  Bessie        ..       .      ..      ..      ,f      ..      ,.       .••.'.-,    .  185 

There  Is  a  God  186 

• 

The  Procession    .       .       .      ..       .       ,       *       «    •   ,.,       .  188 

We  Shall  Sleep  but  We  Shall  Waken        .    .  .       .       .  194 

Death      .     \..       .        ....      ..      ..       ^      ,       .       .  191 

Earth's  Power  and  Weakness     .       .        ...       .       .  196 

A  Song  of  Praise       .       .      .,      ..       v      ,       i       .     ,  .  200 

Poison  Ivy         .        .        .    .   .        .        .     ....     ;   .  199 

The  Pacific  .      ..      ..       .       ..      .-.      >      ..    s  ;       .       .  205 

The  Deep  of  Despair  and  the  Haven  of  Happiness       .  202 

The  Spirit  Realm     ,  ..       .       .      ..       .       .       .       .       ..  206 

Flor  del  Espiritu  Santo  .     .....    ...       .       .       •       -  2I3 

Our  Walk     .      :.       .?    ..:....      ,.       .     .*      >r;*  244 

Home,  Sweet  Home     .   .    .   *       .        .       .       .       *       .  208 

Music      .        .        .      .-     •  r       .        .       «       .       .       .       ..  210 

Ethiopia      .        .       .    .  * '    .'  ..'......       v    >*       .       .  214 

Eden       .        ...       .-      .       .      ..       .       .      ,*       .,      .  216 

Will  There  Be  no  Flowers  in  Heaven?  218 


vii  ] 


The  Gallery  of  the  Great  Artist 222 

The  Harvest 224 

The  Three  Comforters 226 

The  Orchard  Call     .                              228 

Song:     Because  I  Love  Her  So 230 

Lines  to  the  Ocean .  232 

The  Blind  Musician 234 

Ecclesiastes        .     -»       J       .       ,^ 236 

The  Voice  of  the  Clock     .        .      V       .       .        .        .        .238 

Sabbath  Bells    .     -.       .    '  .       .       .     .  .       ...  221 

The  Cry  of  the  Soul    .       ...        .        .        .        .        .  243 

The  Billow's  Answer     .       .       .: 252 

My  Duty       .        .        .       v       .       •.       .        .        .        .        .  246 

The  Heavenly  Jerusalem     .         .       ...       .       .  225 

Gather  the  Wild   Flowers       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  240 

Empty  Nests     .        .        .       . 242 

The  Burning  Building       .       .        .        .        .  ;>    .        .        .  250 

The  Maiden's  Lament  to  Her  False  Lover       .        .        .  245 

Burden  Bearing  .       .       /      .       •       •       •       •       .       •  248 

City  and  Country     .       .       „       .'•.'-.       .               .  249 

How  Perrim  Treated  the  Girls      -.               .       .       .       .  254 

The  Statue         .       .       .       .       .       .       ;       .       .       .  257 

The  White  Crane       .       .       .    .   .       .       .       /     *       .  260 

The  Multitude    .        ..       .        ,       .       V       .  --  ...  263 

Life's  Uncertainty       .       .       .       .       .       v       .       .        .  277 

Our  God     .        ...       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  251 

Lines  on  Night  •.       .       .       ^  .     .       •       •       ...  262 

Harmony     .      ;*      ;.        *       •        •        •        .    -    *    %    ,        .  273 

The  Grave     .       .       .       .       .       „      ..       .      •*       *       .  272 

Life's  Great  Question     .        .               .   :    .    .   .       .       .  264 

The  Beautiful  Past     ....       .       .       .       *        .  268 

Swan  River  Daisies        .        .        .       *       *       .       .       v  270 

Man  by  Wisdom  Cannot  Find  Out  God       .,      .  •     .       .  274 

The  Sower's  Song    .       .        .       .       .       .       .       .       .  278 

My   Poem _*.       .        .        .        .  280 

October  Musings     .               .        '.       .       *  .    ..       .       .  282 


Vlll 


The  Scepter  the  Poppy  Yields 281 

The  Seaside  Cemetery 284 

The  Roses 289 

To  the  Ep worth   League 291 

Spring     .  .  253 

Cities  in  the  Sand 286 

The  Demon  of  Despair  and  the  Angel  of  Hope       .        .  288 

To  the  Lady  at  the  Window 292 

At  Eventide  It  Shall  Be  Light 299 

A    Prisoner        .        .        .       .        .'       .       ,       ...       .  294 

Our   Nation's   Slavery      ..       ;„•''  •  .  .     *       .       ^       .       .  296 

The  Mind's  Treasure-house         .       .      ....   -....*,.       .       .  301 

The   Fields    .        .       .*       .       .      '-r.:     ..      ..      ...       .  300 

The  Woman  to  Her  False  Lover       .       .       .       .       .  302 

Patience         .        .       .     '  .       .       .      ......       .       .  305 

The  Power  of  Kindness       .       .       .       ,       .       *       «  304 

Looking   Beyond         .       .       .       .      . .      ..       .       ,       .  306 

Revenge      .        .        ......        .       *       .  309 

The   Little  Toiler       .        .    ~  .  '     ......  314 

Unsaid         .        .  .       ...       .    ,  .    .   .       .  313 

The   Earthquake          .       «       ...      ....       .        .  310 

The  New  Song         ....   .       .       .       »       .;       ..      .  312 

Wounded       .        .        jt    .   ,       .       .       .      ..  ...*.'     .       .  315 

A  Picture  .        .        .  t     .       .       .       .       .       .       .       *  316 

The  Joy  of  Living      ..        .       .       .       ••     •      ..       »       .  317 

Help  Each  Other     .       .       .       .    ,  .       .       .       .   .    .  318 

Coals       .       .       .       ...       „       ,       ....       .  323 

Slavery         .        .       .        .        ..........       .  320 

Posthumous          .       .     *.       .      ..       .       .       .       .       .  324 

The  Oak  and  the  Vine    .        .._...,...       .  328 

The  River  of  Blessing      .      :.       .       .       ,.       ,       *       ,  335 

The  Bridal  Bell          .       .       .       .       ,       .       „     .       .  330 

One  Little  Glimpse  of  Heaven        ,  [    *,      •       .       .       •  332 

Baby  Brother     .        .       .       .       .    .   .    v*       .       ,       .  334 

A  Summer  Friendship      «•       .       ....       «       .        .  336 

Love's   Petition        .     ;.       *       .       .       , ..',.#       .       .  337 


[ix] 


Suppose          .     :  v -.  347 

The  Years  of  Our  Lives 350 

From  the  City  of  the  Living  to  the  City  of  the  Dead       .  338 

The  Answer 340 

Song        .                .             .^;.S': 342 

Development      .        <     *V-      .    /v,; 347 

Song  of  the  Wind     ^  [    .       i       ;       .        .        .       ...  344 

The  Rescuer's  Request   .       .       .      -.       ,  7     .       .       .  348 

Existence       .       .       .        ,      -,        .        .    \v-      .        .        .  351 

Alice     .        .    •    .        ,       .  •.*.  ,..      "..    ...        .        .        .  248 

Twilight  Thoughts     .       .       .        ,   ,    ,        .        .        .        .  352 

California's  Woodlands  .       v       .       .       .'.••"•«'"     .        .  354 

Defects   .       .       .       .       .       .      -.  ;    ..      ....       .  358 

The  Unattained       .       .        .       .       ..;...       .  356 

U.  S.  Grant    .       .       .        .        .       .       .      ..       ..       .       .  359 

Remember  Thy  Creator  .        .        .        ...        .        .  361 

Remembrance       ...        .        .       -.        .       ,        .        .  362 

To  My  Pansies  .       ....        .     ......        .  364 

The  Desert  Camel     .       .       .       .       ..       .       .       .       .  363 

Paths    .       .       .       .     i  .        .      ..        ...        .        .  366 

Sorrows          .       ,       »       •        •        •        •        •        •       »       •  368 

The  Departed  Friend      .        .        .        ...      ...      ,.       *  370 

The  Red  Linnet    .       *       .       ..        .        .        .       .        .        .  370 

The  Forgotten  Grave      .       .       .       .       .       .       .       ,  371 

Character       .       .       .,        .        .        .       ..  f     .        .       ...  374 

My  Sanctum      ,       .        .        .        .        .        .        .       4       .  375 

To  the  Possessor  of  an  Unbridled  Tongue     .       ..        .       •  380 

Workers  -...•» .  376 

The  Rainless  Summer .       .  378 

A  Dream  Picture      .        .        .        ......        .  381 

Thou  Shalt  Forget  Thy  Misery      ..        .       ..       .        .       .  382 

The  Opening  of  the  Roses .  383 

The  Longing  of  the  Soul    ....        .        .        .        .  384 

The  Haven  of  Rest  .       .       .       ...       .        ....  386 

Flowers  and  Weeds 390 

Do  They  Think  of  Me  at  Home?         .        .        ....  388 


[x] 


Ambition 391 

Coming  Back     .        .        . 392 

Pity  Her  Not 393 

Life's  Aim 397 

The  Heavenly  Messenger 394 

My  Father  Knows  the  Way 402 

Autumn  Leaves           .        .      '• 398 

Rest     .       .       . 400 

A  Dream  Picture        .        .       .       .       .     .  .       .       t       .  403 

The  Love  of  God     .       .       .       .  '     .       Y      .       .      ..  408 

O  Can  I  Be  Happy  in  Heaven?      .        .      ',      '.       .       '.  404 

Little  Things     .        ,       .       .       .       .       .    '  .     '.       .  409 

Our   Lilies         .       .        .      :.>       .     ...      ...       .       .      '.  406 

Not  as  a  King  .        .       .       ...      '..       .    '   .       .  410 

The  Waters  of  Marah       .       .       .       ...       .       .  412 

The  Wanderer  ...       .       .       .  .     .       ...  413 

A  Wish         .       .       .       .      ' .  .,    V     '.       .       .       .       .  419 

The  Answered  Prayer     .       ..       .    '   .       .       .        .        .  414 

The  Invalid  to  the  Caged  Bird       ...       .       "'       .       .  416 

The  Song  of  Peace  .       ....    '  .    '  .    *  .   ;  1       .  417 

The  Day  of  Justice     .....       .        .       .       .       .        .  420 

Lines  Written  on  Receiving  Violets  in  a  Letter       .       .  425 

An  Invocation     .       .  /    .-       .       .       .       .       ...       .  422 

Without      .        .        .      '.       ..'.....  426 

Longing         .        .        .    '   .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  433 

The  Christian  Life  ...*.•'.'..       .  428 

The  Voice'from  the  River      "...       .        .       .       .       .  430 

Thoughts    ...       .       .        ...      '.    '    .       .  432 

Life's  Fruition     .       .       ."     '.       .       .      '.       .   '    .       .  434 

Song — You  Will  Forget  But  Remember  Again      .       .  439 

The  Granite  Boulder  of  the  Beach     .        .       .       .          ~\  436 

Broken  Hearts         .       .        ..-.-..       .       .  441 

In  All  Their  Affliction  He  Was  Afflicted      .        .       ,       A  448 

The  Reign  of  the  Roses       .    '   .    "   .    4   .    \ .    '  .    '  .  44^ 
Buried     .        .       §£     '.     ;-.      '.        .        .  '   V       .        .        .44^ 

We  Cannot  Know  Each  Other            .    v  .    '   .       .       .  444 


[xi] 


The  Two  Roads  .       ;       v      ^       .       .:  ;    ....  446 

The  Revealing  .       ..     .       ...       *  .        .        .  447 

Summer  Clouds  .        .      V      .       .       «/    ....  450 

Who  Is  He?     .       .'     /,.-..     „."  ...  452 

Song  of  Rejoicing      .       .       .'       .   .  ,,,       ,       .    .    .        .  449 

Come    .       .       .       .     ^  .       .       .       .    ;  ^.  .       .        .  460 

Aspirations          .         .       .       .       .        .       .       *        .        .  454 

The  Waves  and  the  Rocks    .       .       .       .  .       .       .  456 

The  False  and  the  True    .       .    '   .       .-      .  ,.,'v    .       .  462 

They  Weep  No  More     .     ,  .       .       ...       .  .       .       .  451 

Laurel  Dell  .       .       -       •       •       •       -       .  ;-       •       •  457 

Retribution         .       .       .     •'» '      .    .    .       .  .        .        .  458 

If     ....       .       .             ..       .       .       .              V  453 

Moonlight  Boat  Song     .        .       .        .       .,  .       ,        .  464 

Lost   Hope    .       ...       ,     ,  .       .       .       .       .       .  461 

The  Paths  of  Peace  .        .     ;.       .       .       .  .        .        .  463 

She  Is  Not  Gone       .       ,v    .       .      V.       /     .       .       .465 

The  Other  Side       .       .'      .'      ...       .  ."      .        .  424 

The  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life  .       /       *       .       .        .  467 

A  Petition  .        .       .       /      .       .       .        .  .       .        .  468 

Every  Heart  Knowest  Its  Bitterness     .       ...     ...    .  469 

Be  True     .       .      v.       .'      .       .       .       <  ,       ...  475 

Life's   Possibilities      .       .        .       .       .       .        ..       ..       .  470 

True  Worth       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .       .   ,    .  474 

None  Shall  Be  Lost  Whom  God  Can  Save   .       .       v      .  472 

Arcata         .       .       .'      .       .'      .'      .       .  _  -.;    ...       .  473 

Manzanita  Blooms      .       .       .....        .        .  474 

Success  and  Failure       .        .       .       .       .  ...  476 

My  Choice    .       .       .       .       .       ...       .       .       .  479 

Behold  He  Prayeth         /      .       .       .       .'  .      :.       .  478 

O  Dweller  in  the  Dreamy  Past!     .       .       .               .       .  480 

The  Heavenly  Hope      .        .        ,               .  .       .       ...  481 

God's  Gift  to  Man     .       /      , ';-.-."    .'      .        .       .        .  481 

Rest     .       .       .       .       .       ,       .  *    .  '     .  .       .       .  482 

To  Him  that  Overcometh         .       .       .        .        ...  483 

To  the  Trees ,       .  .       .'      .  485 


[xii] 


A  Summer  Morning 484 

Worth  While 485 

Be  Patient,  My  Spirit 486 

The  Answered  Petition 487 

Rosebuds 488 

A  Voice  from  Heaven 489 

Our  Afflictions     .        .        .  492 

The  Climbers     .        .        .        .       .       .        .        .       »       .       491 

A  Life  Work       .        ...       .        .        .        .       .       .    492 

Marguerites        .        .      '.'...     "V      .       .       .       490 
The  End  of  Living     .       .       ...       .       .       .       .    494 

He  Giveth  His  Beloved  Sleep     *       .       .       .       .       .       493 

Pansy   Faces        .       .       .       .       .      V"     ...       .    496 

No  Hope     .       «       .       ....       .       .'•     .       .       497 

Lost        .       .       .       .  I    .       .       .       ...       .       .    501 

Little  Things  of  Earth     .        .       .      '.       .      -.       .      -.       500 
Abutilon  Bells     ...       .      :.     -.       .       .       .       .    498 

Earth's  Sorrows       .       .       .      •.       »       *       .       .        .       501 
Mistaken   Values         .       .       .      '.      :.       .       .        .        .    403 

Had  I  but  Wings  Like  Thine       ...       .       .       .       504 

The  Blue  Daisies  of  the  Crag  .        .       .     -.       .       .       .402 

What  Shall  It  Profit  Me?      .       .     -.      -.       .       .       .       505 

Out  of  Darkness        .      :.       .       .     '.       .       .       .       .    510 

The  Veiled  Land     .      ' .'      .       .      '.      '.       ...       .       506 

Alder  Creek  .        .       .       .      ^.       .       .       .       .       .       .506 

My  Prayer       J  .       .       .       .     '  .       .        .       .        .       .       509 

Rosebuds        .        .       .       . !      •    5°7 

A  Farewell       • .     ~ ..       .        .        .        .       .       .       .  •     .       4^9 

Berries    .        .        .        .        .        .        ,        .        ....    508 

The  Heavenly  Mansions       .        .        .       .     •  .       .:       .       511 

Summer          .       .       .       .        .     •  -.       .       .       .       .       .    511 

One  and  Another     .        .       .       .        .       .       .       .       .512 

Estella .    5r4 

Be  Sure  Your  Sin  Will  Find  You  Out      .       .  .       256 

My  Roses      .       .       .       .       <       .       .       .       .'  .    267 

Heartache  .        .       .       •       •       •       • 


[  xiii 


Hollyhocks 279 

The  Wrecked  Life .285 

Purity 287 

Subtle  Influence 295 

Peace  on  Earth 298 

My   Garden        .        .        , 331 

The  Frost     .        .       .        .       .      >       .....  341 

Song        .        .        ...       |      ;| 290 

Peace,  Troubled  Soul — Song       ...        .        .        .  343 

Great  Forces        .       -       .,  •     v,    .        .        .        .        .        .  357 

Stars     .       .       .       ....       vs  '  •        .        .        .  367 

To  the  Flowers    .        .       .        , 369 

Stones  and  Jewels  of  Fame   .       .       .       .       .        .       .  379 

Redemption  Song       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  383 

Hope's  Choral    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  385 

Lines       . .  ...        .        .        .  391 

All   Is   Well      .        . .        .  4n 

Hope  in  God     .    .       .        ...        .        .       >        .        .        .  415 

Lines    .       .       .       .             .-       •       •       •       •       •  :    •  418 

Fragment       .        .        .       .       »       „        .       .       .       .        .  421 

The  Other  Side        .        .       .        .    ,:   .        .  .     .       .        .  466 

A  Retrospect        .        .        .....       .       ...  486 

A  Farewell        .       .       .       .       .       /      .       .       ;       .  513 

A  Song  of  Joy      .        .        .        .       ....       .        .  513 

Easter  Lilies     .        .        .        .       .       «  .     .       .        .        .  525 

Sometime  in  Heaven          . .      .       ...        .       .        .  526 

A  Question       .       .       .       .       .       ...       .       .  527 

The   Bloomed   Bud     .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       i.  528 

Where  True  Wisdom  Is  Gained   .        .       .        .        .        .  529 

Cherry   Time    \  .        .        .      -.       .        .        .       .       ..      .  530 

Forget  Not  God       .       .       ,       ,       .       .       .       .       .  531 


[xiv] 


POEMS 


UNIVERSITY   I 

)FRH}^ 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  POESY 

A  viewless  Spirit  walks  this  changing  earth 
All  unattended  in  her  artless  grace, 
Phantoms  of  sadness  blent  with  gleams  of  mirth 
Play  o'er  the  beauty  of  her  child-like  face. 

She  clasps  a  lyre  in  unfeigned  ecstasy 
And  blends  its  music  with  her  gentle  voice, 
Weird  fancies  steeped  in  subtile  phantasy 
Through  its  wild  chords  lament  but  to  rejoice. 

Not  only  to  the  lofty  does  she  come, 
To  Nature  not  to  Art  her  song  belongs, 
Oft  is  her  music  to  the  monarch  dumb 
While  Nature's  children  revel  in  her  songs. 

She  makes  the  forest  trees  speak  words  sublime, 
She  bids  the  flowers  break  forth  in  songs  of  praise, 
Commands  the  stars  a  voiceless  language  shine, 
Teaches  trfe  brooks  to  sing  through  stony  ways. 

In  her  is  centered  all  that  earth  may  boast, 
That  beauty,  imagery  and  time  have  wrought, 
The  blooming  vale  or  rugged  cliff-bound  coast 
Are  powerless  if  her  wand  has  touched  them  not. 

Her  footsteps  gild  the  sands  upon  the  beach, 
Her  smiles  reflect  the  heaven's  supernal  blue, 
There  is  no  height  her  magic  cannot  reach 
And  call  forth  gleams  of  beauty  strange  and  new. 

She  prisons  all  the  sunset's  richest  dyes 
And  pours  them  out  to  Nature's  humblest  child, 
Age  and  disease  her  wondrous  lyre  defies 
To  hush  its  notes  of  rapture  quaint  and  wild. 


She  softens  sorrow  with  a  plaintive  grace, 
Envelopes  death  in  twilight's  mystic  spell, 
Weird  lights  and  shades  through  all  her  working  chase 
And  glory  lingers  where  she  loves  to  dwell. 

Deep  in  the  ocean's  fathomless  abyss 
She  delves  for  pearls  and  visits  briny  caves, 
Paints  the  bright  sea-shells,  enters  to  possess 
The  empire  where  the  coral  garden  waves ; 

Gathers  rare  blooms  unknown  to  sunny  climes 
And  mosses  in  perpetual  dampness  sown, 
Bears  them  aloft  to  Thought's  immortal  shrines 
And  claims  the  storms'  dominion  for  her  own. 

Myriads  hear  the  music  of  her  voice 
But  few  can  grasp  her  deathless  melody, 
Many  can  see  her  beauty  and  rejoice 
But  few  have  power  for  other  eyes  to  see. 

Thousands  can  feel  her  presence  and  the  spell 
She  sheds  throughout  the  precincts  of  the  heart, 
But  few  her  subtile  influence  can  tell 
And  none  can  teach  her  teachings  but  in  part ; 

For  her  sublimest  songs  no  language  find 
That  eloquence  can  conquer  and  control, 
She  writes  them  on  the  tablets  of  the  mind, 
They  find  an  echo  only  in  the  soul; 

But  not  alone  for  gladness  has  she  songs, 
She  loves  the  storm  and  mighty  ocean  surge, 
Varied  emotion  to  her  lyre  belongs, 
Her  happiest  song  is  followed  by  the  dirge. 


Thus  does  she  come  with  songs  of  grief  and  mirth, 
With  life's  dark  scroll  in  majesty  unrolled, 
She  breathes  upon  the  troubled  seas  of  earth 
Lo,  they  gush  forth  in  streams  of  liquid  gold. 

Come  Poesy,  thou  sea-nymph  quaint  and  wild, 
Thou  seraph  destined  'midst  the  stars  to  sing, 
Thou  fairy,  Nature's  own  untutored  child, 
Come  when  the  bloom  of  life  lies  withering. 

Touch  the  dim  eyes  to  Nature's  glory  blind, 
Kindle  the  smoldering  embers  of  the  heart, 
Waken  the  slumbering  grandeur  of  the  mind 
And  make  the  desert  own  thy  magic  art. 


[3] 


THE  DEPTHS 

Sublime  and  wonderful  art  thou,  O  deep, 

Illustrious  ocean,  vast  unmeasured  waste! 

Lost  in  thy  contemplation,  I  do  seem 

Even  as  a  grain  of  sand  upon  thy  beach, 

That  shouldst  thou  reach  thy  giant  arms  to  grasp 

Would  melt  away  in  thy  dissolving  foam, 

Nor  yet  be  missed  among  the  myriads  left; 

Yet  in  thy  calms  and  tempests,  I  can  read 

The  moods  and  passions  of  the  human  soul; 

Nor  are  thy  changing  winds  and  tides  more  real 

That  those  that  sweep  and  sway  the  depths  of  thought 

Calm  is  thy  breast  to-day,  thou  fitful  main, 

And  yet  perchance  before  the  eastern  star 

Sheds  o'er  thy  surface  her  supernal  beams, 

High  on  yon  crags  thy  maddened  spray  shall  dash 

And  the  wild  roar  of  elemental  war 

Shall  cause  the  dwellers  on  thy  cliffs  to  quake 

And  the  brave  mariner  to  grow  sick  at  heart. 

Why  is  this  murmuring,  this  wild  unrest? 

This  never-ending  conflict  with  thyself, 

As  if  thou  wouldst  burst  through  thy  massive  gates 

And  fling  thy  treasures  through  celestial  space, 

Strew  the  pale  Occident  with  coral  sprays 

And  the  blue  zenith  with  ten-thousand  gems; 

Or  scatter  pearls  throughout  the  Orient  flames ; 

Or  yet  go  seething  through  yon  crested  heights 

And  with  a  voice  like  Gabriel's  trumpet,  tell 

The  pent-up  secrets  of  thy  hidden  depths 

Unto  the  flaming  beacon  of  the  day? 

'Tis  vain — with  all  thy  vast  gigantic  power, 
Thou  canst  but  cast  a  few  frail  treasures  forth, 
Perchance  a  seaweed  spray  or  tinted  shell, 

[4] 


Dripping  and  glistening  from  thy  briny  surf, 

Cast  out  upon  the  sands,  that  wheresoe'er 

Fate  or  caprice  may  bear  its  fragile  form, 

A  whispered  song  from  its  pink  lips  is  heard 

That  seems  to  speak  of  caverns  deep  and  lone 

Sunk  in  thy  heaving  bosom,  restless  sea, 

That  eye  hath  never  seen,  nor  yet  a  ray 

From  the  bright  flickering  lamps  of  Heaven  has  pierced. 

Thus  do  the  surges  of  the  spirit  rise 

And  dash  against  their  narrow  prison  walls, 

Clap  their  rapt  wings  and  long  for  liberty ; 

Or  in  a  vague  unrest  beat  to  and  fro, 

Forever  striving  to  yield  up  the  things 

That  pent  in  their  own  beings  will  not  rest 

Ah !  like  the  sea,  they  only  render  up 

Perchance  a  thought  from  out  their  hidden  caves, 

That,  like  the  sea-shell,  murmurs  of  the  depths 

That  slept  before  undreamed  of  far  below; 

Within  the  human  soul  lie  depths  as  deep 

As  ever  slept  within  the  ocean's  breast, 

And  heights  that  rise  beyond  the  breaker's  crest 

In  the  vain  wish  to  pass  their  narrow  bound. 

Lo,  o'er  the  depths  of  ocean  and  of  soul 

Breathes  forth  a  voice  that  calms  their  wild  unrest: 

"Peace,  be  thou  still,"  "to  me  thou  shalt  yield  up, 

The  garnered  fullness  of  thy  hidden  things; 

To  me  the  deep  shall  pour  her  treasures  out ; 

To  me  the  ocean  shall  her  secrets  tell ; 

At  my  command  the  sea  shall  burst  her  gates 

And  the  chained  treasures  of  the  depths  come  forth ;" 

So  shall  the  soul  break  forth  at  last  in  song; 

So  shall  her  pent-up  longings  be  unloosed 

To  sweep  adown  the  aisles  of  endless  time; 

So  shall  the  depths  therein  in  endless  praise 

Pour  out  their  garnered  fullness  unto  God. 

[5] 


TRUST 

Fear  not  to  tread  the  unknown  way,  my  heart ; 
If  God  takes  from  thee  any  earthly  part, 
He  fills  the  measure  up  with  better  worth; 
As  much  of  Heaven,  as  hath  been  lost  of  earth. 

Shun  that  mirage  upon  whose  shifting  brink 
No  dying  traveler  ever  stooped  to  drink, 
For  no  alluring  pleasure  turn  aside 
From  where  the  landmarks  of  your  duty  guide. 

Not  unto  bliss  or  misery  are  we  born, 
To  wealth  and  honor  or  to  want  and  scorn, 
But  to  a  world  where  each  his  work  is  given 
The  reward  of  faithfulness, — one  common  Heaven. 

Our  destiny  in  our  own  hands  we  sway 
Claim  if  we  will  or  cast  the  prize  away, 
By  no  degree  of  judgment  unexplained 
Is  Heaven  lost,  or  Paradise  regained. 

Fear  not,  my  heart,  though  God  hath  taken  all 
Thine  earthly  cup  of  happiness  contains, 
When  all  of  earth  is  lost  beyond  recall, 
Lo,  all  of  Heaven  remains. 


[6] 


FAME 

Millions  have  gazed  upon  thy  towering  height, 

O  envied  Fame! 
And  millions  fain  would  on  thy  record  write 

A  fadeless  name. 

But  oh,  how  many  of  this  mighty  throng 

While  years  have  flown, 
Have  lived  and  died  and  left  life's  changing  song, 

To  fame  unknown ! 

Ah !  many  a  fair  ambition-gilded  gem, 

So  dearly  prized, 
Has  faded  from  Hope's  golden  diadem 

Unrealized. 

And  are  they  lost — gone  never  to  return 

Dead  songs  of  vanished  years  — 
And  nothing  left  but  lessons  hard  to  learn, 

Through  bitter,  blinding  tears? 

Yes;  many  who  might  stand  at  Honor's  side 

With  laurels  crowned, 
But  struggle  to  fulfil  through  Time's  slow  tide, 

Life's  common  round. 

And  some,  who  might  have  found  Fame's  golden  throne 

A  well-earned  destiny, 
Leave  not  behind  a  monumental  stone 

To  tell  their  history ; 

Too  good  to  leave  for  other  hands  to  do 

Their  common  daily  task, 
Faithful  to  duty,  to  their  Maker  true; 

No  higher  lot  they  ask. 


[7] 


Forgotten?  Oh,  those  many  unmarked  graves, 

Strewn  over  land  and  sea ! 
Naught  but  the  desert  winds  and  ocean  waves 

Rehearse  their  memory. 

But  oh!  in  immortality  arrayed 

In  Heaven  they  dwell, 
Though  years  have  vanished,  since  to  earth  they  bade 

A  long  farewell. 

But  not  alone  the  poor  and  humble  rest 

Where  willows  wave, 
The  highest  paths  of  power  and  fame,  at  last 

Lead  to  the  grave. 

Ah !  hear  the  dirge  that  all  mankind  must  learn : 

Place  not  on  earth  thy  trust, 
For  dust  thou  art,  to  dust  shalt  thou  return, 

Dust  unto  dust. 

A  queen  lay  on  her  death-bed,  'round  her  shone 

Beauty  and  luxury; 
But  what  to  her  was  now  her  princely  throne 

And  mighty  monarchy? 

Lost  to  the  world  would  soon  her  presence  be, 

And  ghosts  of  vanished  years, 
Thronged  'round  her  bed,  laughed  at  her  misery 

And  mocked  her  tears. 

But  memory  saw  another  being  there, 

Her  crown  of  gold, 
The  jewels  sparkling  on  her  waving  hair 

Roused  fears  untold. 


[8] 


Again  she  saw  the  warrant  she  had  signed 

To  seal  another's  fate, 
And  sought  for  peace  and  mercy  but  to  find 

Her  search  too  late, 

And  uttered;  knowing  that  'twould  soon  be  o'er, 

The  last  words  she  could  say 
Before  the  proud  tongue  paused  to  speak  no  more, 

"A  kingdom  for  a  day !" 

A  kingdom — all  its  wealth  and  princely  dowers 

To  gladly  give, 
Just  for  a  few  more,  weary,  lingering  hours 

In  which  to  live. 

In  which  to  make  her  peace  with  Heaven  secure 

Before  her  tongue  was  dumb, 
In  which  to  make  her  blackened  record  pure 

Ere  death  should  come. 

How  short'is  human  Fame,  how  very  soon 

Is  passed  Life's  little  day, 
Her  wealth  and  beauty  journey  to  the  tomb ; 

Her  glories  fade  away. 

How  small  is  Fame — beyond  her  golden  sands, 

Beyond  the  clouds,  we  see  • 

The  shining  bow  of  promise,  spans 

Time  and  eternity. 


[9] 


THE  REQUIEM  OF  THE  DOVE 

Across   the   marshes*   willowy   fringe   and   seas   of   sunlight 

golden, 
Across    the    meadows    purple-tinged    with    buds    but    half 

unfolden, 

Where  helpless,  yearning  tendrils  cling, 
And  fancied  fairies  lightly  swing, 
With    all    the   gladsome   springtime   bloom    that   brooks    no 

phantom  thought  of  gloom, 
Is  blent  one  song  of  sorrow. 

Who  is  the  bard  that  dares  to  sing  one  note  of  aught  but 

gladness  ? 
Who  is  the  sprite  that  comes  to  ring  one  floral  bell  in  sadness  ? 

When  perched  upon  the  mossy  wall 

The  meadow  lark  is  prince  of  all, 
While  joy  ecstatic  at  his  call  resounds  from  mere  to  mountain. 

From    orange    groves    and    spicy    isles    gay    minstrels    are 

returning, 
While  roses  glow  with  sunny  smiles,  their  blush  to  ashes 

burning, 

Stray  ripples  laugh  through  banks  of  fern, 
Grim  rocks  the  gladsome  message  learn, 

The  trees  rejoice  at  Spring's  return,  and  clap  their  hands  for 
gladness. 

But  over  all  this  vernal  glee  'midst  Nature's  reckless  wooing, 
Intrudes  like  sorrow's  prophecy  a  mournful,  plaintive  cooing; 

Somewhere  a  lonely  songster  sings 

Of  scattered  leaves  and  vanished  springs, 
And  all  her  pent-up  anguish  brings  to  mock  the  joy  of  Nature. 


[10] 


'Tall  mariposa  tulips  smile,  among  the  reeds  and  rushes' 


Wild  thickets,  dense  with  briers  and  weeds,  are  glad  with 

sounds  of  pleasure, 
On  grassy  slopes  the  shy  fawn   feeds   and  gambols  at  his 

leisure ; 

But  one  sad  seeress  from  her  hill 
Casts  over  all  an  icy  chill, 

Sways  the  rapt  listener  at  her  will,  and  floods  his  soul  with 
sadness. 

How  canst  thou  come,  thou  mournful  one,  each  breeze  with 

sorrow  loading? 

Why  chant  beneath  a  smiling  sun  one  note  of  dark  foreboding? 
When  light  is  dancing  in  the  dells, 
When  music  through  the  forest  swells, 

And  fairies   ring  their  dewy  bells,   why  chant   that  all  are 
dying  ? 

Tall  mariposa  tulips  smile,  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 
Wild    tiger-lilies    droop    the    while    to   hide    their    conscious 
blushes ; 

But  still  frbm  meadows  far  away 

Resounds  that  plaintive,  mournful  lay, 
Rebuking  all  the  thoughtless  play  of  Nature's  artless  children. 

Come  in  the  Autumn,  dauntless  seer,  when  withered  leaves  are 

falling, 
Then  is  the  time  o'er  Nature's  bier  to  mind  thy  mournful 

calling ; 

But  not  in  Spring's  supernal  bloom 
Should  Nature  whisper  of  the  tomb, 

Or  prophets  come  with  thoughts  of  gloom  to  blight  her  youth 
and  beauty. 


But  still  from  out  her  lonely  haunt  is  borne  her  sad  replying : 
There  is  of  youth  no  lasting  font,  there  is  no  end  but  dying, 

The  flowers  that  on  the  hillsides  bloom 

And  all  that  share  their  sweet  perfume 
Shall  mingle  in  one  common  tomb,  for  all  but  love  is  dying. 

Awake,  rapt  songsters  of  the  grove,  and  sing  of  mirth  and 

gladness, 

Drown  with  the  melodies  of  love  that  solemn  voice  of  sadness ; 
The  winds  her  mournful  omens  waft, 
Then  let  them  bear  your  notes  aloft, 

Ye   at  the   font  of  love   have   quaffed,   and   love   shall   live 
forever. 

Hark !  what  a  mingled  burst  of  sound  with  every  breath  more 

thrilling, 
From    ridge    to    ridge    its    echoes    bound,    the    loftiest    hope 

fulfilling, 

Wild  rapture  rends  the  balmy  air, 
Soft  carols  find  an  echo  there, 

The  dove's  low  requiem  has  its  share  in  Spring's  complete 
outpouring. 

Join  with  the  rest,  thou  gentle  dove;  there  is  no  song  of 

gladness 
But  grows  more  tenderly  complete  when  linked  with  notes  of 

sadness, 

Then  chant  thy  sweet,  pathetic  strain, 
Spring  waits  to  hear  thy  soft  refrain, 
Calling  her  to  accept  a  throne 

Where  gladness  cannot  reign  alone,  but  joy  and  grief  are 
blending. 


[12] 


SONG  OF  THE  CRICKET 

When  the  Summer  moonlight  evening,  weird,  fantastic  shades 

creating, 
Wrapped    within    her    sombre    mantle,    treads    the    sunset's 

slanting  bars, 

An  unrivaled  nightly  singer  in  some  unseen  crevice  waiting 
Times  his  slumbrous  twilight  sonnet  to  the  twinkling  of  the 

stars. 

Hushed  is  now  the  plumaged  songster,  finished  is  his  rich 

outpouring, 

While  the  honey-bee  in  silence  seeks  his  darkened  royal  cell; 
The    grasshopper    no    longer    chirps    from    Nature's    grassy 

flooring, 
But  one  tireless  voice  undaunted  chants  no  Summer-night 

farewell. 

Not  the  royal  moth's  low  whirring,  or  the  breeze's  whispered 

story 
Makes  the  stilly  air  seem  teeming  with  the  same  repeated 

note; 
Not  the  cry  so  weird  and  stirring  of  the  night-owl,  old  and 

hoary, 
Is  the  serenade  that  nightly  through  my  window  loves  to 

float. 

Floating  through   my  open   window   in   its   wiry,   humdrum 

meter, 

While  the  stars  so  slyly  twinkling  time  his  nightly  serenade; 
Many  a  song  is  much  more  thrilling — many  another  surely 

sweeter, 
But  a  truer  perseverance  has  no  other  bard  displayed. 


[13] 


RAIN  ON  THE  MOWN  GRASS 

(He  shall  come  down  like  rain  upon  the  mown  grass: 
as  showers  that  water  the  earth." — Ps.  72:6.) 

The  sweet  wild  roses  are  nodding  farewell 

To  the  beautiful  month  of  May, 
While  the   wind-sprites   waft  on   their   sunlit-wings 

The  aroma  of  new-mown  hay. 

June,  frolicking  midst  the  orange  groves 

And  palms  of  the  southern  clime, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Summer  among  the  pines 

And  hastened  to  be  in  time. 

She  came  o'er  the  fields  with  a  lightsome  step, 

The  berries  with  gladness  flushed, 
While  the  roses  greeting  their  virgin  queen 

A  deeper  crimson  blushed. 

The  asphodel  waves  on  the  bare  hill-slopes 

And  down  by  the  crystal  spring, 
The  birds  from  the  alder's  inviting  shade 

Their  June-time  carols  sing. 

The  fishes  are  swimming  lazily 

O'er  the  sands  of  the  pebbly  brook, 
While  smiling  June  wreathes  the  wild  grape-vine 

O'er  many  a  cozy  nook. 

But  a  change  comes  over  her  radiant  face, 

One  sigh  the  Summer  hears, 
And  the  eyes  of  her  fair  young  princess 

Are  overflowing  with  tears. 


[14] 


Has  she  thought  of  the  frosts  of  Autumn 

Making  her  leaves  a  tomb, 
Or  does  she  mourn  that  her  roses 

Are  withering  as  they  bloom? 

But  look,  there's  a  smile  on  her  tearful  face 

Unknown  to  foreboding  fears; 
Happy  June  is  but  weeping  for  gladness, 

She  waters  her  fields  with  her  tears. 

Down  on  the  new-mown  grasses 
And  stubble,  the  cool  showers  pour, 

The  thirsty  land  drinks  up  the  rain-drops 
And  eagerly  asks  for  more. 

Down  on  the  drouth  and  barrenness 
As  an  answer  to  Nature's  prayer, 

The  rose  may  drink  of  the  cooling  flood 
And  the  weeds  may  have  a  share. 

So  over  Life's  hard,  dry  stubble, 
From  heavens  of  burnished  brass, 

The  mercy  of  God  is  descending 
As  rain  on  the  new-mown  grass. 


[15] 


EXPERIMENTUM  CRUSIS 

("The  fire  shall  try  every  man's  work."— 1  Cor.  3:13.) 

Is  it  delusion  when  we  break  the  seal 

That  false  opinion  has  set  on  the  tombs 

Of  mighty  truths  that  sleep  'mid  silent  glooms, 

And  catch  one  glimpse  of  the  living  real 
That  rises  to  confront  us? 

Thus  I  saw  (but  for  a  moment  and  in  awed  surprise) 
All  the  work  of  my  life,  and,  furnace-tried, 
The  dross  consumed,  and  but  the  gold  abide, 

And  God's  truth  stood  unveiled  before  my  eyes — 
Then  vanished,  save  to  memory. 

No  more  I  count  my  greater  triumphs  great, 

No  more  my  little  victories  are  small; 

Since  I  hold  still,  amidst  the  loss  of  all 
The  deathless  glory  of  unselfish  love  and  conquered  hate. 

Brighter  than  trophies  of  unrighteous  war. 

O,  little  kindnesses  that  were  not  set 

To  sparkle  in  the  crowns  of  emperors ! 
O,  human  victories  that  the  God  of  wars 

Shall  not  forget ! 
These,  these  remain  when  every  work  is  tried. 

No  more  I  covet  the  reward  of  fame; 

The  Christ-like  spirit  in  each  given  task 
Immortal  gold — truth,  faith,  and  love — 

I  ask. 
These  shall  not  waste  in  flame. 


[16] 


UNWRITTEN  HISTORY 

There  are  romances  unwritten,  there  are  poems  never  penned, 

There  are  battles  all  unseen  and  unrenowned, 

There  are  heroines  and  heroes,  that  no  record  shall  attend, 

There  are  hidden  histories  never  to  be  found, 

There  are  songs  unsung  and  comedies  and  tragedies  untold, 

There  are  words  of  grandest  eloquence  unsaid, 

There  are  gems  of  thought  and  feeling  that  no  settings  ever 

hold, 

Books  unprinted,  scenes  unpainted,  lives  unread. 
On  the  printed  page  encircled  by  the  rainbow  pledge  of  Fame, 
In  the  paintings  in  the  gallery  of  Art, 
In  the  sea  of  song  that  surges  with  full  many  a  deathless 

name 

Are  the  things  that  thrill  the  World's  great  mind  and  heart. 
Not   alone   on   walls   and   bookshelves   left   by   progress   far 

behind, 

Not  alone  on  lips  that  once  could  sway  with  speech, 
Not  alone  on  souls  and  intellects  to  light  and  beauty  blind 
Are  the  World'«s  great  heart-throbs  lost  to  thrill  or  teach. 
Like  a  bird-song  on  the  silence  of  the  forest's  slumbrous  aisles, 
Like  a  wild-flower  in  the  weeds  and  grasses  lost, 
Like  a  sunbeam  that  unnoticed  for  a  moment  gleams  and 

smiles, 

Like  a  sparkling  wavelet  on  a  trackless  coast, 
Unheard,  unseen,  unnoticed  in  Nature's  vast  domain, 
Save  by  the  great  Creator's  ceaseless  care, 
Are  waves  of  thought  and  feeling,  of  ecstasy  and  pain 
Lost  with  the  mists  of  morning  on  the  air; 
A  song  has  surged  unbidden  through  the  cloister  of  a  soul 
And  the  angels,  yes,  the  angels  must  have  heard, 


[17] 


But  no  human  audience  spell-bound  listened  to  its  ocean  roll. 

Pure  and  peaceful  as  the  music  of  a  bird 

A  thought  like  some  sweet  wild-flower  has  blossomed  in  a 

heart 

And  the  angels  watched  its  petals  bright  unfold 
But  no  mortal  knew  the  beauty  of  its  poetry  and  art, 
No  tongue  its  hidden  jewel  ever  told. 
A  sunbeam  has  illumined  perchance  a  darkened  path — 
A  sunbeam  bright  with  love  and  light  and  hope, 
Or  a  shadow  dark  with  sadness,  or  black  with  hate  and  wrath 
O'er  some  life's  young  morn  of  promise  dared  to  grope ; 
'Tis  but  a  common  life-wave  that  beat  upon  the  beach 
Till  broken  on  the  rocks  and  backward  cast 
It  left  no  spray  of  seaweed  or  tinted  shell  in  reach, 
Forgotten  'midst  the  surges  of  the  past. 

When  the  clang  of  war  is  over  there  are  heroes  lifted  high 
Whose  noble  deeds  a  nation's  tongue  applaud 
But  oh,  the  many  thousands  who  have  dared  to  do  and  die 
Unhonored,  for  their  country  and  their  God ! 
Where  would  the  great  commanders'  illustrious  laurels  be, 
The  generals'  career  of  high  renown 
But  for  the  common  soldiers  unknown  to  history 
Like  grain  before  the  harvesters  cut  down? 
O'er  the  dust  of  battle-heroes  there  are  monuments  upraised 
Where  the  pennon  of  their  triumph  proudly  waves 
But  oh,  the  battle-heroes  unhonored  and  unpraised 
At  rest  where  grasses  creep  o'er  unmarked  graves ! 
And  some  as  brave,  unshrinking  in  Duty's  arduous  path 
As  the  grandest  hero  history  can  name — 
They  faced  the  red  artillery,  the  cannon's  demon  wrath 
And  wrote  in  lines  of  blood  another's  fame. 
Oh,  the  heroes  who  have  figured  on  the  great  world's  changing 

stage ! 


[18] 


Oh,  the  names  that  have  been  handed  down  the  years ! 
Every  Nation  has  its  heroes,  its  famous,  every  age, 
Monarchs  of  its  scrolls  and  parchment,  swords  and  spears; 
But  like  a  few  sands  gathered  from  the  ocean's   glittering 

beach 

To  the  heroes  and  the  heroines  (are  they) 
Who  have  fought  life's  battles  bravely,  who  have  lived  to 

learn  and  teach 

But  whose  memoirs  with  their  lives  have  passed  away. 
Oh,  the  books  that  have  been  published,  the  histories  compiled ! 
Oh,  the  words  that  have  been  written,  sung  and  said ! 
They  are  nothing  to  the  volumes  o'er  which  few  have  wept  or 

smiled 
Books  unprinted,  scenes  unpainted,  lives  unread! 


[19] 


ANGELUS 

Angels  are  singing,  angels  of  light ! 
Angels  are  winging  their  homeward  flight, 
Lo,  while  we  grope  in  the  darkness  to-day 
Guardian  angels  are  leading  the  way ! 

Had  we  but  visions  like  Jacob  of  old 
In  dreams  Elysian  their  forms  to  behold, 
Would  we  not  see  them  seraphic  and  fair 
Treading  the  steeps  of  the  sun-gilded  air? 

Lightly  descending,  or  rising  above, 
Each  one  attending  an  errand  of  love; 
Each  on  a  mission  of  mercy  intent; 
Each  on  a  wonderful  pilgrimage  sent. 

What  are  they  noting,  of  hearts  and  of  homes? 
What  message  floating  to  yonder  bright  domes? 
What  through  those  gates  will  their  entering  bring? 
What  are  they  bearing  aloft  to  their  King? 

Some  may  be  telling  of  souls  clad  in  white 
Patiently  dwelling  in  sorrow  and  night, 
Some  may  be  telling  of  evil  and  wrong 
Saddening  the  strains  of  their  beautiful  song. 

(Long  years  ago  with  his  wonderful  skill 

Michael  Angelo  sought  to  fulfill 

All  his  high  thoughts  of  the  angels  of  light 
Thronging  our  pathway  in  daytime  and  night. 

In  the  cathedral  where  grandly  he  wrought, 
Toiling  on,  faithful  and  true  to  his  thought, 
Angels  look  down  from  their  stations  to-day 
Though  the  great  artist  has  long  passed  away. 

[20] 


Angels  encamping  around  and  on  high, 

Angels  adorning  the  miniature  sky, 
Legions  of  angels  in  fanciful  air 
Lovingly  guarding  the  worshipers  there. 

Beautiful  thought,  may  our  life-work  be  crowned 
By  troops  of  angels  encamping  around, 
Guardian  hosts  that  their  vigil  shall  keep 
Through  the  long  years  while  from  labor  we  sleep.) 

Oh,  are  we  treading  the  beautiful  way? 
Angels  encamping  around  us  to-day 
Gladly  will  bear  up  the  message  to-night 
Souls  have  been  walking  in  garments  of  white. 

What  though  the  road  seemeth  tedious  and  long, 
What  though  no  word  of  their  beautiful  song 
Floats  from  the  heavens  our  pathway  to  cheer, 
Angels  are  singing  and  angels  are  near. 

Far,  far,  above  us  their  glad  songs  arise 
Oh,  do  they  love  us  at  home  in  the  skies? 

Sometime  our  harps  to  their  choir  we  will  bring, 
Learn  their  glad  anthem  and  sing  as  they  sing. 


[21] 


EASTER  ANTHEM 

(Arise,  shine;    for  thy  light  is  come  and  the  glory  of  the 
Lord  is  risen  upon  thee. — Is.  60:1.) 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Let  the  heavens  and  earth  be  glad; 

Lo,  with  her  unnumbered  voices 

All  the  universe  rejoices 
In  the  excellence  of  glory  He  from  the  beginning  had. 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Let  the  heavens  and  earth  be  glad. 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Let  the  stars  together  sing, 

With  His  glory  on  them  falling, 

Higher  yet  His  name  extolling, 
In  exceeding  rapture  telling  of  the  universal  King. 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Let  the  stars  together  sing. 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Let  the  cedars  clap  their  hands, 

With  His  sunshine  o'er  them  streaming, 

With  His  glory  'round  them  gleaming; 
Lo,  from  out  death's  darkness  risen,  in  eternal  life  He  stands ! 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Let  the  cedars  clap  their  hands. 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Open  wide  the  starry  gates 

Of  the  universe  before  Him; 

All  His  wondrous  works  adore  Him; 

Lo,  he  cometh,  cometh,  cometh;   for  His  word  His  chariot 
waits. 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Open  wide  the  starry  gates. 

[22] 


The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Everlasting  life  is  thine, 

Thine  the  glorious  life  He  liveth, 

Thine  the  light  He  only  giveth ; 
In  His  own  exceeding  brightness,  oh,  arise  and  shine ! 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Everlasting  life  is  thine. 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Angels  rolled  the  stone  away, 

Praises  winged  from  harps  and  timbrels 

Hover  o'er  earth's  living  symbols, 

Lilies  wake  from  dark  earth's  keeping;  bright  wings  burst 
your  bands  to-day 

The  Lord  liveth,  alleluia! 
Angels  rolled  the  stone  away. 


[23] 


ROCK  OF  AGES 
1884 

"Rock  of  Ages,"  sang  the  maiden, 
Knew  she  not  of  fear  or  dread, 
Stifling  air  with  hot  smoke  laden 
Beat  about  her  youthful  head. 

Red  flames  curled  above,  below  her, 
Shrieks  of  terror  rent  the  air, 
Angry  flames  leaped  closer,  closer 
'Till  they  almost  touched  her  hair; 

Still  the  song's  sweet,  peaceful  music 
Rose  above  the  wails  of  woe 
'Till  the  breezes  bore  it  downward 
To  the  hurrying  crowd  below. 

"Hark!"   they   said,   "Who   is    it   singing?" 
And  they  strained  their  eyes  to  see 
While  the  sweet  song  went  on  ringing 
Forth  its  peaceful  melody. 

Dimly  through  the  smoke  and  blackness 
They  beheld  a  woman's  form 
Clinging  to  an  upper  casement 
Singing  midst  the  fiery  storm; 

Listened  they  in  breathless  silence 
Through  that  burning,  seething  sea, 
Came  the  words  distinctly,  clearly: 
"Rock  of  Ages  cleft  for  me." 


24] 


"Raise  the  ladders,  we  will  rescue 
Her  who  sings  mid  fire  and  smoke." 
"I  will  go,  she  shall  not  perish," 
Thus  the  strong,  brave  fireman  spoke; 

Soon  they  reached  the  lonely  figure 
Standing  on  death's  frightful  brink, 
The  flames  almost  caught  her  garments 
But  she  did  not  pause  or  shrink; 

Back  again  to  earth  they  brought  her 
To  the  frightened,  wondering  throng 
And  they  asked  in  eager  questions 
All  about  her  wondrous  song. 

"Could  I  fear,"  she  said,  "when  o'er  me 
Seeing,  hearing,  knowing  all 
Thefe  was  One  who  ever  watchful 
Heeds  the  sparrows  when  they  fall?" 

Wondrous  faith,  to  stand  there  singing 
With  what  seemed  her  dying  breath, 
Sweetest  song  when  angels  listened, 
Glorious  victory  over  death! 


ACCEPTED  AND  REJECTED 

A  modern  bard  of  some  renown 
Scribbled  a  few  weak  couplets  down 
And  sent  them  to  his  printer, 
Then  fell  asleep  to  wait  the  fee 
That  purchased  gaiety  and  ease 
For  all  the  coming  winter. 

The  printer  read  the  name  thereto, 
"Not  time  to  look  the  poem  through 
What  use  to  question  further?" 
No  doubt  a  treasure  he  possessed. 
The  sum  is  sent  with  the  request 
Ere  long  for  such  another. 

An  humble,  unknown  pen  inscribed 
A  poem,  yet  by  gold  unbribed, 
Inwrought  with  Truth's  pure  spirit, 
Rich  with  the  costly  gems  of  thought 
And  all  with  glistening  beauty  fraught 
Of  real  and  lasting  merit. 

The  printer  giving  half  askance 
The  signature  a  passing  glance 
Consigned  it  to  the  stubble, 
Ignored  the  simple  terms  proposed 
But  kept  the  return  stamp  enclosed 
To  pay  him  for  his  trouble. 


[26! 


LEONARD  LAKE 

Up  where  the  tall  Coast  mountain  peaks 

Smile  neath  the  azure  skies, 
Where  the  voice  of  nature's  goddess  speaks 
And  the  startled  deer  through  the  forest  leaps, 

A  calm  little  lakelet  lies. 

On  its  green  banks  the  redwood  towers 

And  drops  its  bursting  cones, 
Sweet  bird-songs  while  away  the  hours 
And  the  south  wind  rustles  through  the  flowers, 

Or  in  the  tree-top  moans. 

To  the  oak-tree  the  wild-grape  vine 

In  emerald  splendor  clings, 
From  the  deep  shade,  pink  star-flowers  shine, 
And  the  graceful  bell  of  the  columbine 

In  the  gentle  zephyr  swings. 

I  remember  the  slopes  where  the  tulips  blow, 

And  the  cool  refreshing  spring; 
The  banks  where  the  beautiful  green  ferns  grow 
And  the  waters  dark  and  deep  below, 

And  the  songs  the  wild  birds  sing. 

In  vain  do  I  sing  of  the  exquisite  grace 

Of  mountain  and  lake  and  tree; 
Should  an  artist's  skillful  pencil  trace 
The  varied  outlines  of  rustic  grace, 

'T  would  at  best  but  a  shadow  be. 

Fain  would  I  picture  each  perfect  part, 
With  the  sound  of  the  dashing  oar, 

Though  deeply  engraven  on  mind  and  heart 

I  cannot  to  other  minds  impart 
The  charms  that  for  me  they  wore. 

[27] 


CALIFORNIA 

A  land  with  peace  and  plenty  crowned, 

Where  luxury  and  wealth  abound ; 

A  land  where  Freedom's  goddess  reigns 

Unfettered  by  Oppression's  chains. 

A  land  where  every  clime  is  found, 

Where  different  races  till  the  ground. 

Here  tropic  fruits  and  flowers  grow 

And  Summer's  softest  breezes  blow. 

Here  too,  tall  mountain-columns  glow 

In  regions  of  perpetual  snow; 

While  various  climates  lie  between 

Hills  clad  in  robes  of  living  green, 

And  vales  with  golden  harvests  blest, 

By  sunbeams  and  soft  winds  caressed. 

The  great  Pacific's  broad  expanse 

Spreads  out  before  the  traveler's  glance, 

And  in  her  ceaseless  song,  he  hears 

The  memories  of  forgotten  years ; 

Ere  man  beheld  her  peaceful  shore 

Or  listened  to  the  breaker's  roar. 

Yosemite  lifts  her  domes  and  spires 

And  tunes  to  Heaven  her  native  lyres, 

Her  cataracts  in  torrents  fall, 

Her  mountains  form  a  mighty  wall; 

And  all  their  princely  peaks  combine 

To  guard  proud  Grandeur's  loftiest  shrine. 

The  mammoth  trees,  like  giants  stand, 

Stationed  to  guard  their  native  land. 

Kings  of  the  forest's  leafy  throne 

By  countless  angry  tempests  blown ; 

Resisting  ruin  and  decay, 

They  live,  while  nations  pass  away. 

The  tall  Sierras,  towering  high, 

Print  the  pale  arches  of  the  sky ; 

[28] 


And  like  proud,  princely  monarchs,  throw 

Their  shadows  in  the  lakes  below; 

And  o'er  the  flowery  bowers  of  green, 

Where  Calliope  dwells  unseen, 

The  grandeur  of  their  lofty  domes 

Falls  softly  o'er  the  peaceful  homes ; 

Where  man  can  undisturbed  abide 

Far  from  the  gilded  pomp  of  Pride. 

The  birds,   their  flight  through   tree-tops   wing 

And  sing  at  eve  their  vesper  hymn, 

And  when  the  sunlight  hails  the  morn, 

Chant  through  the  woods  their  native  song. 

The  rivers,  flowing  from  the  hills, 

The  flowers,  low-bending  o'er  the  rills, — 

All  help  to  make  the  land  more  fair, 

And  scatter  beauty  everywhere. 

Long  years  ago,  our  fathers  came 

To  seek  a  land,  whose  wide-spread  fame 

Had  echoed  through  the  world  abroad, 

And  sounded  o'er  the  eastern  sod ; 

'Till  hundreds  with  bright  hopes,  elate, 

Journeyed  to  find  the  golden  State. 

O'er  wastes  of  land,  through  trials  untold, 

They  came  to  dig  the  precious  gold. 

At  night  they  made  their  lonely  bed 

Beside  some  winding,  silvery  thread. 

At  morn  the  trackless  plain  they  pressed 

And  faced  again  the  sunlit  west. 

O'er  mountain  paths,  their  way  they  wound; 

'Till  on  fair  California's  ground, 

They  stood  beneath  her  stately  pines 

And  viewed  at  last  her  famous  mines. 

Some  chose  no  more  abroad  to  roam 

And  made  the  western  State  their  home; 

Some,  who  had  come  for  gain  and  gold, 

Went  back  to  find  their  homes  of  old; 

But  all  unsatisfied  were  they 

[29] 


From  such  a  golden  realm  to  stay, 
So  crossed  the  wilderness  again 
To  find  the  land  of  gold  and  grain. 
The  dark-browed  natives  gazed  in  awe 
And  with  fierce,  war-like  anger  saw 
Their  loved  and  cherished  hunting-ground 
Changed  into  farms  and  peopled  towns; 
What  wonder  that  in  rage  they  rose 
For  vengeance  on  their  pale-faced  foes? 
What  wonder  that  each  swarthy  brave 
Strove  his  Elysian  home  to  save? 
But  all  in  vain,  there  soon  shall  be 
None  left  to  tell  their  history ; 
And  even  now,  earth  can  but  trace 
A  remnant  of  that  mighty  race. 

*         ******         j 

Fair  California,  land  of  gold ! 

My  hopes  for  thee  are  yet  untold, 

But  ere  I  lay  my  pen  aside 

These  wishes  I  would  here  inscribe : 

That  vice  should  haunt  thy  hills  no  more 

Nor  crime  infest  Pacific's  shore, 

But  right  and  loyal  truth  increase, 

And  all  the  votaries  of  peace 

Should  enter  at  thy  Golden  Gate; 

My  childhood's  home,  my  native  State ! 


[30] 


TOO  LATE 

In  his  arm-chair  the  old  man  sat,  his  head 
Rested  so  heavy  on  his  wrinkled  hand, 
One  gray  lock  by  the  evening  breezes  fanned 
Moved  on  his  forehead,  thus  the  merry  band 
Of  revelers  found  him,  spoke  his  name  and  said : 
"Awake  to  fortune,  leave  thy  lonely  hearth 
The  world  at  last  has  recognized  thy  worth." 
He  moved  not,  and  they  saw  that  he  was  dead. 

Dead  and  alone  in  poverty,  yet  calm 

Was  his  cold  brow  and  on  his  lips  a  sweet  triumphant  look, 

The  outward  vestage  of  an  inward  prayer 

As  one  who  suffered  long, 

A  sweetness  like  the  sadness  of  a  song; 

Angels  had  tqld  him  what,  alas !  too  late 

Men  came  to  tell  him,  that  his  soul  was  great. 


[31] 


A  PRAYER 

(And  golden  vials  full  of  odors  which  were  the 
prayers    of   saints. — Rev.    5:8.) 

Breathed  in  the  soul's  deep  chamber 

When  none  but  God,  were  near ; 

Wrung  from  a  weight  of  anguish 

Or  a  burden  of  mute  despair; 

But  gathered  up,  by  viewless  hands, 
And  wafted  upward  on  pinions  fleet, 
Welcomed  by  joyous  angel  bands, 
A  golden  vial  of  odors,  sweet. 

Sung  in  the  house  of  worship 

By  a  spirit,  tuned  to  praise, 

Forgotten  amid  the  tumult 

And  bustle  of  later  days ; 

But  guarded  through  Time's  dissolving  flight 
By  faithful  watchers,  who  never  sleep, 
Unsullied  by  earthly  rust  or  blight, 
A  golden  vial  of  odors,  sweet. 

Lisped  by  infant  voices 

In  the  hush  of  the  evening  hour, 

Lost  on  the  balmy  breezes 

Like  the  scent  of  a  fragile  flower; 

But  evermore  shall  the  angels 

Their  scattered   perfume  reap, 

For  even  a  child's  petition 

Is  a  vial  of  incense,  sweet. 


[32] 


Uttered  in  broken  accents 

By  the  trembling  voice  of  age, 

Or  inscribed  in  true  devotion 

By  the  pen  of  an  earnest  sage; 
O,  the  saint's  unheard,  unuttered  prayer 
In  its  garnered  fullness  complete, 
Shall  perfume  Heaven's  unclouded  air, 
A  golden  vial  of  odors,  sweet. 

Wrung  from  the  anguished  bosom 
Of  the  stricken,  dying,  brave, 
Murmured  in  faltering  accents 
O'er  the  cradle  or  the  grave; 

Forevermore  shall  the  angels 

Faith V last  petition  keep; 

And  love's  true  invocation 

Is  a  vial  of  odors,  sweet. 

Vibrating  the  chords  of  gladness 
Like  the  praises  of  happy  birds, 
Or  swaying  the  chords  of  sadness 
In  notes,  too  deep  for  words ; 

How  many  a  priceless  treasure 

Is  flung  on  the  silent  air, 

When  a  golden  vial  full  of  odors 

Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer! 


33] 


TO  THE  WILD  CANARIES 

I  have  watched  you  so  oft  when  a  child,  blithe  canaries, 
Beside  the  cool  stream  where  you  warbled  and  drank ; 
When  you  helped  me  to  gather  the  luscious  blackberries 
That  trailed  their  long  vines  o'er  the  moss-covered  bank. 

'Neath  the  tall  alder's  shade  with  their  green  and  gold  tassels 
Dropping  on  the  swift  current  and  gliding  away, 
I  have  watched  you  and  built  such  aerial  castles 
They  stayed  not  to  fade  with  the  close  of  the  day. 

You  swing  to  and  fro  on  the  rough  Spanish  thistle 
And  gather  its  seed  for  your  wee  baby-broods, 
You  mingle  your  songs  with  the  mocking  bird's  whistle 
And  on  each  quiet  pause  your  blithe  twitter  intrudes. 

You  bathe  where  the  ripples  play  over  the  pebbles 
And  dash  the  light  spray  o'er  your  beautiful  wings, 
While  the  brook's  cheerful  music  in  clear  little  trebles 
Joins  the  oriole's  song  where  he  carols  and  swings. 

You  belong  to  the  woodland  choir,  and  your  sweet  voices 

Add  much  to  the  charm  of  their  anthems  of  praise ; 

In  Spring  when  all  nature  awaking  rejoices 

You  chant  with  the  rest  Summer's  sweet  prophecies. 

You  are  friends  to  the  lover  of  nature,  your  beauty, 
The  gold  of  your  breasts  and  the  grace  of  your  forms 
Are  beautiful  gems,  linked  with  every-day  duty 
And  sunbeams  to  cheer  after  bleak  cloudy  storms. 


[34] 


I  have  climbed  to  the  nests  of  your  marvelous  weaving 
And  looked  at  the  dainty  eggs  guarded  within, 
I  have  watched  your  young  birdlings  their  cozy  homes  leaving 
New  homes  in  the  world  for  themselves  to  begin. 

I  have  wondered  if  on  your  own  native  sea-islands 
You  are  happier,  lovelier,  brighter  than  here; 
You  are  charming  enough  in  our  own  mossy  woodland 
And  the  charms  of  your  music  cannot  be  more  dear. 

When  away  from  my  home  and  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Sweet  memory  paints  you  in  lines  of  delight, 
So  real,  I  seem  in  my  own  leafy  wild-wood 
Where  the  song  of  the  bird  and  the  brooklet  unite. 


[35] 


THE  CAVERN  BY  THE  SEA 

(An  authentic  tradition.) 

The  tropical  islands  of  Tonga 

In  the  Southern  Pacific  sea  lie 

Like  fragments  of  cool  rainbow  color 

Dropped  down  from  the  melting  blue  sky. 

They  are  gardens  of  clustering  palm  trees 
Of  creepers  and  tall  waving  fronds, 
Flowers,  colored  by  sunshine  and  sea-breeze, 
Fruits,  painted  by  tropical  dawns. 

In  these  beautiful  islands  of  Tonga 
Dwelt  a  chieftain,  young,  stalwart  and  brave, 
Who  dived  like  a  fish  in  the  ocean 
And  rose  with  the  foam  on  the  wave. 

One  morning  while  swimming  and  diving 
He  ventured  so  deep  by  the  shore 
That  he  rose  in  a  wonderful  cavern 
Which  had  never  been  heard  of  before. 

A  cavern  that  no  one  could  enter 
But  by  diving  deep  down  in  the  sea, 
And  stalactiles  hung  from  the  center 
And  sides  of  its  arched  canopy. 

No  sunbeam  illumined  its  arches, 
No  moonbeam  lay  on  its  stone  floor, 
Its  pale  pensive  light  was  reflected 
From  the  depths  of  its  watery  door. 

Bright  sea-shells  and  fragments  of  coral 
And  seaweed  in  chaplet  and  spray 
Cast  up  by  the  waves'  angry  quarrel 
In  ledges  and  crevices  lay. 


The  chieftain,  transfixed  in  his  wonder, 
Gazed  long  with  his  dark  eager  eyes, 
Like  a  warrior  rejoiced  o'er  his  plunder 
He  spoke  to  his  wonderful  prize. 

"Thou  art  mine,  O  my  beautiful  palace ! 
No  other  my  secret  shall  know, 
My  refuge  from  envy  and  malice, 
I  tell  not  my  friend  or  my  foe ; 

For  a  secret  revealed  to  a  brother 
That  hour  is  a  secret  no  more, 
One  wave  whispers  low  to  another 
And  the  surges  speak  loud  on  the  shore." 

• 

There  was  silence  once  more  in  the  cavern 
Then  a  splashing  of  sea-foam  and  wave 
And  the  daring  young  chief  of  the  Tonga 
Rose  up  from  his  submarine  cave. 

Time  passed  and  a  ruler  tyrannic 
Reigned  over  the  peaceful  domain, 
So  cruel  was  he  that  a  panic 
Spread  over  the  isles  in  his  reign. 

One  chief  planned  a  great  insurrection 
And  well  were  his  secret  plans  laid 
When  the  news  spread  in  every  direction 
That  the  deeply  laid  scheme  was  betrayed. 

And  he  who  had  planned  insurrection 
And  all  of  his  family  with  him 
Were  sentenced  to  speedy  destruction 
By  the  dreadful,  tyrannical  king. 

This  chief  had  a  beautiful  daughter 
Betrothed  to  a  chief  of  high  rank, 

[37] 


Like  a  great  stone  cast  into  the  water 
At  the  dread  news  her  happy  heart  sank. 

The  youth  who  discovered  the  cavern 
Had  long  loved  the  damsel  in  vain, 
So  he  brought  her  the  news  of  her  danger 
Which  inspired  him  with  hope  once  again. 

He  begged  her  to  trust  him  to  save  her, 
Though  his  terrible  peril  he  knew 
Naught  but  hope  of  their  safety  he  gave  her 
As  they  fled  in  their  little  canoe. 

On  the  way  he  described  the  lone  cavern, 

The  place  of  their  hasty  retreat, 

'Till  he  paused  where  the  rocks  towered  above  them 

And  told  her  it  lay  at  her  feet. 

With  warcries  the  island  resounded 

'Till  the  birds  hushed  their  songs  in  affright 

Then  a  yell  as  of  victory  sounded; 

Had  the  dread  king  discovered  their  flight? 

Dim  forms  on  the  shore  became  clearer, 
Then  the  splashing  of  heavy  canoes 
Just  behind  sounded  nearer  and  nearer, 
They  had  not  a  moment  to  lose. 

These  women  can  swim  like  the  mermaids 
And  dive  like  the  fish  in  the  sea; 
So  the  young  chief  sprang  into  the  water 
And  cried  to  the  maid :  "Follow  me." 

Down,  down  through  the  shadowy  water, 
With  her  hair  streaming  out  on  the  tide, 
Sank  the  great  chieftain's  beautiful  daughter 
With  the  young  island  chief  at  her  side. 

[38] 


A  splashing  of  waves  and  then  silence, 
By  the  gray  rock  an  empty  canoe; 
And  they  rose  in  the  wonderful  cavern 
That  none  but  the  young  chieftain  knew. 

It  was  fifty  feet  high  at  the  center 
And  the  widest  part,  fifty  feet  wide; 
What  foeman  could  ever  there  enter 
To  harm  the  young  maid  or  her  guide? 

And  here  the  chief  hid  his  brave  lady 
'Till  the  angry  king  gave  up  the  chase 
In  the  great  cavern,  silent  and  shady, 
Lit  but  by  the  sea  and  her  face. 

• 

And  here  to  her  palace  he  carried 
Costly  clothing,  food,  mats  and  perfume, 
And  none  knew  what  treasure  was  buried 
In  the  great  cavern's  silence  and  gloom. 

And  here  by  his  kindness  and  daring 
His  love  to  the  maiden  he  proved 
And  won  for  his  bride  the  fair  damsel 
Whom  long  without  hope  he  had  wooed. 

Meanwhile  he  prepared  for  a  voyage 
With  all  of  his  tribe  to  depart 
From  the  land  of  a  cruel  oppressor, 
The  islands  still  dear  to  his  heart. 

At  last  they  embarked  all  in  safety 
Unknown  to  the  treacherous  king, 
He  told  them  to  wait  in  the  shadow 
And  his  bride  from  the  sea  he  would  bring. 

He  dived  at  the  foot  of  the  bowlder, 
His  wondering  tribe  waited  amazed 

[39] 


And  half  (each  astonished  beholder) 
Believed  that  the  chieftain  was  crazed. 

Alarmed  at  his  long  disappearance 
His  people  began  to  deplore, 
O,  surely  the  young  chief  had  perished! 
And  they  waited  in  fear  by  the  shore. 

A  sound  like  the  rushing  of  water, 

A  sparkling  of  foam  from  the  tide 

And  the  gallant  young  chief  of  the  Tongas 

Rose  up  from  the  sea  with  his  bride. 

Her  dark  hair  streamed  over  the  water, 
Her  eyes  shone  like  stars  in  the  blue ; 
And  the  dead  chieftain's  beautiful  daughter 
Was  safe  in  her  waiting  canoe. 

In  a  far  distant  kingdom  they  rested 
'Till  the  cruel  oppressor  was  dead, 
Then  returned  to  their  homes  unmolested 
Where  a  better  king  reigned  in  his  stead. 

And  long  in  their  palm  islands,  shady 
Dwelt  the  chieftain,  so  noble  and  brave, 
With  his  tribe,  and  his  beautiful  lady 
Whom  he  hid  in  the  deep  ocean  cave. 


[40] 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS  BLUE 

Under  the  violets  blue,  under  the  lilies  white 
Dearest,  must  I  or  you  hidden  be  first  from  sight, 
One  left  to  mourn  behind,  one  nevermore  to  sorrow? 
O,  while  we  live  be  kind,  glad  bells  may  toll  to-morrow! 

Waken  fond  heart  to  prize 

Sweet  days  too  brief — too  brief  for  careless,  vain  forgetting, 

Soft  light  from  happy  eyes 

Heart  knows  no  sorrow  like  the  sorrow  of  regretting. 

Look,  from  the  morning  skies 

In  clouds  and  in  glory  the  golden  sun  is  setting. 

Over  the  violets  blue  cast  wrong  and  strife  behind, 
O,  while  we  live  be  true !  O,  while  we  live  be  kind ! 
Over  the  lilies  white  make  sweet  life's  deepest  sorrow, 
Ring  happy  bells  to-night,  bells  that  may  toll  to-morrow. 


[41] 


EASTER  HYMN 

'Tis  morn  in  Joseph's  garden  now 
Where  death  and  night  and  darkness  were, 
The  lilies  still  in  sadness  bow 
Around  the  Saviour's  sepulcher, 
Angels  in  shining  garments  clad 
Speak  first  the  word  that  mortals  heed 
'Till  Nature,  wrapt  in  gloom,  is  glad; 
The  Lord  is  risen,  is  risen  indeed. 

Gladly  they  bear  the  message  on 
Who  stood  beside  His  empty  tomb, 
The  night  is  o'er,  the  darkness  gone 
The  angels  sing,  the  lilies  bloom. 
Powerless  the  chains  of  death  to  bind 
The  captive  from  their  bondage  freed, 
Death's  dreary  dungeon  left  behind, 
The  Lord  is  risen,  is  risen  indeed. 

As  rose  the  sun  above  the  heights 
Chasing  the  gloom  from  earth  and  skies 
Behold  above  the  night  of  nights 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  arise; 
Burst  are  the  chains  of  death  and  hell, 
Go  ye,  who  hear  the  message,  speed, 
Above  the  graves  of  nations  tell 
The  Lord  is  risen,  is  risen  indeed. 

'Tis  morn  upon  the  earth,  once  more, 
Sweet  Easter  morn  when  lilies  spring 
To  greet  the  sun  from  shore  to  shore 
And  saints  rejoice  and  angels  sing; 


[42] 


All  nature  now  breaks  forth  in  song 
And  Easter  anthem  angels  lead 
With  joyful  hearts  the  strains  prolong, 
The  Lord  is  risen,  is  risen  indeed. 

'Tis  morn,  the  gospel  light  has  streamed 
From  Africa's  coast  to  India's  strand, 
The  dawn  of  which  the  prophet  dreamed 
Is  flooding  each  benighted  land. 
Above  the  vanities  of  men 
O'er  crumbling  shrine  and  moldering  creed 
High  o'er  the  mountain  tops  of  sin 
The  Lord  is  risen,  is  risen  indeed. 


[43] 


A  BOSOM  FRIEND 

I  have  a  friend,  a  bosom  friend, 
'Tis  many  years  since  first  I  met  her ; 
And  while  my  path  and  hers  don't  blend, 
I  pray  the  kindly  Fates  to  pet  her. 

She  seeks  the  country,  for  her  health, 
"Runs  over  for  a  flying  visit ;" 
The  months  pass  by  with  noiseless  tread, 
It  isn't  any  wonder,  is  it? 

There's  one,  at  least,  admires  her  style, 
And  one,  at  least,  who  thinks  her  pretty; 
And  at  the  distance  of  a  mile 
You'd  know,  she's  lately  from  the  City. 

She  calls  me  now,  "her  bosom  friend," 
And  then  again,  "her  country  cousin" 
And  airs,  where'er  our  way  we  wend, 
Her  street-flirtations,  by  the  dozen; 

And,  just  for  recreation's  sake, 

Her  arts  on  some  poor  youth   she'll   practice, 

Then  o'er  a  frog,  a  spasm  take ; 

(She's  studying  to  be  an  actress.) 

She's  sad  at  times  and  sometimes  gay, 
Grows  suddenly  so  sentimental. 
She's  perfect  in  a  tragedy, 
Her  fame  will  yet  be — continental. 

My  mode  of  dress,  she  doesn't  commend, 
She'll  criticize  my  every  feature; 
But  then,  she  is  my  bosom  friend 
And  such  a  perfect  little  creature. 

[44] 


She  trills  the  sweet  Mikado  airs, 
This  gushing  little  maid  unwary, 
She  finds  out  all  my  least  affairs 
And  makes  them  like  her  music — airy. 

Her  charms  I  fully  comprehend, 

I  know  my  imperfections  better; 

And  while  her  path  and  mine — don't  blend, 

I  pray  the  kindly  Fates  to  pet  her. 

May  sweet  Mikado  airs  repeat 
To  make  sublime,  life's  prickly  cactus; 
May  dudes  still  wither  at  her  feet. 
Long  may  the  City  keep  its  actress. 

• 

But  should  this  darling  bosom  friend 
Be  drawn  by  sweet  affection's  fetter, 
Another  flight  with  me  to  spend, 
O,  pitying  Fates,  I  pray,  don't  let  her! 


[45] 


THROUGH   THE  GOLDEN   GATE 

In  through  the  Golden  Gate 

The  stately  vessels  come, 
Cheering  the  ones  who  watch  and  wait 

'Till  their  faithful  ships  come  home. 
A  speck  in  the  distant  blue, 

A  glimpse  of  a  flashing  sail 
Or  a  steamer  ploughing  the  waters  through 

And  facing  the  freshened  gale. 
One  by  one  they  come, 

Some  early  and  others  late; 
But  all  to  be  anchored  safe  at  home 

Inside  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

From  the  Orient  ports  they  come, 

From  the  islands  of  the  sea, 
Ploughing  their  way  through  the  crested  foam 

To  the  waves'  wild  melody ; 
While,  close  in  their  pathless  way, 

The  gulls  from  their  rude  cliff-nests 
Flap  their  wings  in  the  driven  spray 

And  bathe  in  the  foam,  their  breasts. 
Flags  on  the  sea-breeze  chill 

Streaming  their  colors  wide, 
Splashing  of  waves  when  storms  are  still 

On  the  rising  and  ebbing  tide; 
Vessels  from  foreign  lands, 

Steamers  from  distant  climes, 
Rock  in  their  cradle  of  silver  sands 

To  the  wild  waves'  rolling  rhymes. 
Side  by  side  in  the  blue 

Of  the  dimpling  waves  at  play, 
As  up  to  the  busy  wharf  they  drew 

From  the  golden  gate  of  the  bay. 


[46] 


Out  from  the  Golden  Gate 

One  by  one  they  go. 
Each  to  her  fortune  or  her  fate, 

What  waits  them  who  can  know? 
Who  can  tell  if  they  come 

Again  o'er  the  harbor  bar, 
Ploughing  their  way  through  the  dashing  foam 

In  the  light  of  sun  or  star? 
Who  knows  but  that  stately  form 

In  the  distant  blue,  a  speck, 
May  lie  ere  the  light  of  another  morn 

In  the  whelming  floods,  a  wreck? 
Lost!  Lost!  in  the  deep 

To  the  maddened  waves  a  prey, 
Lost!  Lost!  where  the  caverns  sleep 

In  fathomless  mystery; 
Or  lured  by  the  siren's  song 

On  merciless  rocks  to  dash, 
To  sink  while  the  midnight  shadows  throng 

And  severing  timbers  crash. 

In  through  the  Golden  Gate 

In  the  twilight's  deepening  hush, 
Out  through  the  Golden  Gate 

In  the  morning's  rosy  flush; 
With  the  port  of  rest  in  view, 

O'er  the  perilous  waves  to  ride, 
Sail  the  proud  ships  of  our  country  true 

With  the  flag  of  our  nation's  pride, 
While  close  in  their  pathless  way 

The  gulls  from  their  rude  cliff-nests 
Flap  their  wings  in  the  driven  spray 

And  bathe  in  the  foam  their  breasts ; 
And  the  dark  blue  waves  I  love, 

In  their  aimless  frolic  reach 


[47] 


For  the  shells  in  many  a  sheltered  cove 

And  the  sunbeams  on  the  beach ; 
And  another  ocean  spreads 

Her  waste  behind,  before, 
Where  the  stern  cliffs  lift  their  fog-veiled  heads 

And  the  wild  waves  laugh  and  roar. 
And  I,  in  my  tossing  boat, 

Through  the  perilous  waters,  steer 
And  strive  through  the  foggy  air  to  note 

Some  sign  of  a  haven  near. 
Hark!  'tis  the  syren's  song! 

Look !  'tis  a  hidden  shoal ! 
Dense  and  dark  are  the  mists  that  throng 

To  hide  from  my  sight,  my  goal ; 
Many  a  wreck  I've  passed. 

Lost!  Lost!  Shall  I  share  their  fate? 
O,  to  be  safe  with  my  anchor  cast 

Inside  of  the  Golden  Gate ! 
Where  the  everlasting  hills 

All  mansion-crowned,  appear, 
And  no  dense  fog  veils  and  no  damp  wind  chills 

The  beautiful  city,  there ; 
But  where  in  that  haven-home 

There  are  some  who  watch  and  wait 
For  each  worn,  storm-driven  barque  to  come 

In  through  the  Golden  Gate. 


[48] 


THE  CREATION 

From  the  blackness  and  darkness  of  chaos 
Jehovah  said :  "Let  there  be  light." 
And  the  first  sunny  morn  knew  its  dawning 
And  the  evening  stars  welcomed  the  night. 

Through  vistas  of  sunlight  and  shadows 

The  golden  shafts  melted  in  space, 

While  the  new  world  traversed  her  bright  pathway 

With  the  smile  of  God  fresh  on  her  face. 

She  moved  in  her  beauty  and  grandeur 
Leaving  chaos  and  darkness  behind, 
A  world  that  had  first  had  its  being 
In  the  wealth  of  the  Infinite  mind. 

The  waves  caught  the  tint  of  the  cloud-lands 
And  shouted  aloud  in  their  glee 
'Till  the  Creator  silenced  their  voices 
And  shut  up  the  gates  of  the  sea. 

"Hitherto  shalt  thou  come,  but  no  further 
And  here  shalt  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed." 
The  sea  heard  her  Maker's  commandment 
And  the  fierce  briny  ocean  obeyed. 

The  vales  smiled  with  verdure  and  blossoms, 
The  proud  rocks  rose,  silent  and  gray ; 
But  whose  were  those  magical  fingers 
That  fashioned  each  delicate  spray? 

And  who  was  the  marvelous  sculptor 
Whose  chisel,  unheard  and  unseen, 
Carved  out  the  great  rocks  and  deep  basins 
For  the  cool  brooks  that  fretted  between? 

[49] 


Did  the  angels  glean  fragments  of  sunlight 
And  tints  from  the  blue  of  the  skies, 
Deep  shades  from  the  roseate  dawning 
Starry  halos  and  rich  sunset  dyes 

To  wreathe  in  fantastical  splendor 
Around  the  first  beautiful  morn, 
And  cut  into  rubies  and  diamonds 
The  bride  of  the  heavens,  to  adorn? 

The  power  that  subdued  the  fierce  ocean 
Created  each  flower  in  the  dell, 
The  brooks  and  the  bird's  brilliant  plumage 
And  the  crags  and  vast  mountains  as  well ; 

And  placed  in  the  midst  of  these  treasures, 
In  the  Eden  of  beauty  and  mirth, 
Man,  made  in  His  own  divine  image 
And  formed  from  the  dust  of  the  earth. 

Oh !  fair  was  the  first  bridal  morning 
That  God  in  His  wisdom  ordained ; 
But  alas !  the  lost  charms  of  its  promise 
Humanity  never  regained. 

Oh!  the  matchless  perfection  of  Eden, 
The  center  of  beauty  and  love, 
Where  the  Creator  blessed  the  first  union 
Recorded  by  angels  above. 

And  down  through  the  sin-tarnished  ages 
Comes  that  record,  so  stainless  and  true, 
Of  the  pure  and  unsullied  completeness 
That  the  world  in  its  innocence  knew, 


[so] 


Ere  man,  by  his  direful  fall,  made  it 
A  prey  to  destruction  and  death, 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  upon  it 
And  Peace,  ladened  each  spicy  breath. 

When  sparkling  with  fresh  dewy  garlands 
She  traversed  her  orbit  of  light, 
And  nature's  electrical  voices 
Rejoiced  at  the  wonderful  sight. 

How  the  glad  morning-stars  sang  together 
While  the  moon  in  the  blue  zenith  hung, 
And  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy 
In  the  days  when  the  green  earth  was  young. 

And  their  happy  songs  glanced  on  the  waters 
And  echoed  from  mountain  to  glen, 
'Till  a  few  stray  notes  borne  on  the  ages 
Floated  down  to  the  children  of  men. 


LILY  OF  THE  NILE 

Queenly  lily,  fair  and  fragrant, 

I  have  watched  thy  charms  unroll 
Till  thy  gold  embossed  scepter 
Gleams  against  thy  spotless  scroll. 
Stately  Ethiopian  princess 
From  thy  realm  a  fair  exile 
Vieing  with  the  rose  in  sweetness. 
Queenly  lily  of  the  Nile. 

Lovely  in  thy  child-like  beauty, 

Yet  majestic  in  thy  pride; 
Could'st  thou  be   more  sweetly  gracious 
Nodding  by  the  river  side? 

Breath  like  zephyrs  freshly  laden 
From  some  flower-wreathed  ocean  isle; 
Snow-white  Ethiopian  maiden, 
Modest  lily  of  the  Nile. 

Dost  thou  feel  no  pang  of  longing, 
Dost  thou  breathe  no  weary  sigh 
For  thy  native,  Orient  splendor — 
For  thy  native,  sunlit  sky? 

Far  away,  thou  knowest  not  whither, 
Many,  many  a  weary  mile, 
Thy  fair  sisters  bloom  and  wither, 
Stately  lily  of  the  Nile. 

Bloom  beneath  the  palm-tree's  shadow 

Just  along  the  river's  brink, 
Where  gay  birds,  with  brilliant  plumage 
Soar  to  sing,  and  stoop  to  drink. 

Plucked  by  Egypt's  dark-eyed  daughters 
To  adorn  some  granite  pile — 
Fresher  from  their  natiye  waters, 
Snowy  lily  of  the  Nile. 

[52] 


'Midst  those  scenes  of  Eastern  splendor 

Thy  ancestral  race  began — 
Where  the  night  of  heathen  darkness 
Spread  abroad  its  withering  ban ; 
Yet  no  spot  of  man's  transgressing 
Could  thy  purity  defile, 
Looking  heavenward  for  each  blessing, 
Saintly  lily  of  the  Nile. 

Did  they  view  thy  purer  glory 

With  their  darkened  minds  unawed? 
Did  they  learn  of  thee  no  lesson 
Of  the  power  and  love  of  God? 
Like  a  spotless,  white-winged  angel 
Sent  to  them  untouched  by  guile, 
Did  they  spurn  thy  glad  evangel, 
Spotless  lily  of  the  Nile? 

O,  could  they  have  looked  from  Nature 

Unto  Nature's  God  alone, 
Would  they  not  have  scorned  to  worship 
Images  of  wood  and  stone? 

Would  they  not,  thy  beauty  seeing, 
Have  looked  up  in  faith  erewhile 
To  the  God  who  gave  thee  being 
Matchless  lily  of  the  Nile? 


[53] 


PACIFIC  GROVE 

(Dedicated  to  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Annual  Conference, 
meeting  at  Pacific  Grove.) 

Again  the  pines  wave  welcome  at  our  coming ; 

The  waves  sound  forth  glad  ecstasies  of  greeting, 

And  like  an  old-time  friend,  Pacific  Grove 

Makes  room  for  all  the  joyous  throng,  who  love 

Her  sea-breeze,  where  in  blended  charms  are  meeting 

Fragrance  of  flowers  and  church-bell's  mellow  chiming. 

Once  more  we  look  in  kind,  familiar  faces, 

And  clasp  glad  hands, 

And  see  friends  meet  who  have  grown  wiser,  older, 

In  distant  lands. 

For  Thou,  O  Lord,  who  formed  this  resting  spot, 

Thou  only  changest  not. 

Though  storms  dissolve  the  beach's  granite  bowlder 

To  shifting  sand,  that  at  their  mercy  rolls, 

They  enter  not  thy  temple's  holiest  places 

In  human  souls. 

A  little  while  to  gather  living  pleasures, 

Like  flowers  from  crag  and  cliff, 

And  cast  old  care,  like  sea-weed  on  the  billows 

To  drag  and  drift. 

"Peace,"  is  the  motto  of  this  seaside  nest; 

Fold  tired  wings  and  aching  hearts,  and  rest; 

World-weary  brains  find  sleep  on  Nature's  pillows 

By  blossoms  overgrown, 

And  leave  to  heaven  the  earth-begotten  treasures 

Thy  human  heart  has  known. 


[54] 


Again  the  pines  wave  welcome! 
Shall  we,  coming,  bring  hearts  alive  to  swell 
At  artist's  visions,  poet's  inspiration — 
The  true  musician's  spell? 

Souls  with  the  Christian's  heaven-born  hope  attune, 
And  from  the  earliest  dawn  to  night's  high  noon, 
In  street  and  temple — by  the  grand  old  ocean — 
We    shall    see    pictures,    feel    immortal    poems,    hear    God's 
Recessional. 


[55] 


GOING  DOWN  HILL 

You  may  not  travel  very  fast 

When  first  you've  started  down, 
You  may  not  stumble  at  the  first 

And  fall  and  break  your  crown, 
You  may  find  only  flowery  slopes 

So  easy  to  descend; 
But  heed  a  warning  voice,  in  time, 

'Tis  not  so  at  the  end. 

Steeper  and  steeper  will  become 

The  dark  defiles  before, 
Faster  and  faster  grow  your  speed 

'Till  you  behold,  no  more, 
The  grassy  slopes,  the  flowery  glens, 

The  first  bright  shallow  rill 
You  crossed,  with  such  a  buoyant  tread, 

When  starting  down  the  hill. 

You  may  be  half  way  down,  if  so, 

Just  pause  awhile  and  think, 
'Twill  be  too  late  for  thought,  you  know 

When  quaking  on  the  brink 
Of  the  great,  awful  precipice, 

To  which  your  footsteps  tend, 
You  surely  would  retrace  your  steps 

Could  you  but  see  the  end. 

Though  near  the  end,  there  may  be  hope 

And  help  and  safety  still, 
Stop!   learn  where  you  are  standing  now 

On  this  great  moral  hill ; 
Ponder  on  all  that's  gained  before 

And  all  that's  lost  behind, 
Turn  back,  and  purer,  clearer  air 

At  each  brave  effort,  find. 

[56] 


Help  from  a  strong  arm,  reaching  down 

From  Heaven,  in  mercy  ask ; 
Remember  every  step  you  climb, 

Easier  grows  your  task. 
Above  you  lie  the  flowery  slopes 

And  sunny,  taintless  air; 
Below,  oh,  stagnant,  poisonous  sloughs 

And  cruel  rocks  are  there ! 

Yet  though  brave  hearts  may  strive  in  time 

To  warn  you,  if  you  will, 
In  spite  of  friends  and  Heaven  and  sense, 

You'll  travel  down  the  hill ; 
When  jnangled  by  your  awful  fall 

Into  a  dark  abyss, 
Remember  that  a  friendly  voice 

Warned  you  in  time  of  this. 


[57] 


THE  TRUE  DIGNITY  OF  LABOR 

Sometime,  somewhere,  on  art's  high  walls  shall  hang 
A  picture  that  all  men  shall  turn  to  praise, 
Forgetting  that  these  broken  harp-chords  sang 
In  the  far  past  its  golden  prophecies; 
Beholding,  strong,  courageous,  from  the  fight 
The  dignity  of  labor's  armored  knight. 

And  will  one  say  the  artist's  dream  is  wrong  ? 
False  sentiment  has  nerved  his  eager  hand? 
The  honest  laborer  is  the  column  strong 
On  which  all  universal  structures  stand, 
Hew  down  these  pillars  standing  side  by  side 
And  great  will  be  the  fall — the  ruin  wide. 

Picture  great  cities  clamoring  for  food 
While  plenteous  grain-fields  stand  unharvested, 
Picture  the  fires  gone  out,  no  coal  or  wood 
And  children  crying  for  their  daily  bread, 
While  vineyards  lie  unpruned  and  orchards  spoil 
Because  the  laborer  has  ceased  to  toil. 

Still  fancy  painteth  scenes — the  half-built  dome, 

The  unfinished  glory  of  the  architect, 

The  slow  decaying  beauty  of  the  home 

For  want  of  paint  and  reparation  wrecked, 

The  flocks  unshorn — want  that  no  hopes  assuage — 

Because  the  workman  ceaseth  on  life's  stage. 

See  higher  stations,  by  the  lowlier  fed, 
Deserted  for  the  fields  where  labor  delves ; 
The  learned  and  great  striving  for  daily  bread 
While  wisdom  gathers  dust  on  idle  shelves; 
Then  tell  me  honest  labor  is  no  part 
Of  the  great  world  of  intellect  and  heart  ? 

[58] 


But  view  the  dust-stained  sons  of  toil  return 
Like  a  vast  army  in  their  solemn  march, 
Would  not  for  them  ten  thousand  welcomes  burn 
In  splendor  from  one  grand  triumphal  arch, 
And  wealth  and  fashion  honor  haste  to  do 
Unto  the  many  who  must  serve  the  few? 

When  shall  the  artist's  canvas  honor  him 
Whom  a  false  bigotry  will  not  perceive 
Rising  from  mists  of  ignorance,  low  and  dim 
'Till  side  by  side  with  all  who  would  achieve 
He  stands  with  noble  aim  for  human  good 
In  light  of-  universal  brotherhood  ? 

He  looketh  not  in  dumb  dejection  pressed 

Down  to  ignoble  clods,  but  up  and  out, 

His  calling — it  is  one  among  the  rest, 

He  meets  it  without  questioning  or  doubt 

And  though  he  flaunts  no  sword  and  breasts  no  spoil 

All  honored  be  his  implements  of  toil. 

Thus  leave  him — the  erect  and  noble-browed, 
Whom  future  generations  gather  round 
When  he  who  o'er  his  task  an  exile  bowed 
Stands  as  a  prince  upon  his  native  ground, 
Strong  his  right  arm  to  wring  by  honest  toil 
The  Nation's  life-blood  from  a  hallowed  soil. 


[59] 


THE  WILD  DEER 

Fly  for  thy  life,  fleet,  frightened  creature,  fly ! 

Fly  for  thy  life,  or  thou  art  doomed  to  die ! 

Swift  in  thy  track,  the  hounds,  thy  hoof-prints  scent, 

Faster  and  faster,  on  their  prey  intent. 

O,  pause  not  in  the  grassy  dingle  now, 

Nor  think  to  rest  upon  the  mountain's  brow ; 

For  life  and  liberty,  thy  speed  increase! 

Broken  is  now  the  forest's  slumbrous  peace, 

As  bounding  onward,  swift  as  a  gazelle, 

Through  manzanita  brush  and  chaparral; 

With  panting  sides,  but  fleet,  unfailing  limbs, 

O'er  fallen  trees,  down  gorges,  grand  and  grim. 

The  startled  rabbit,  swift  before  him  flies ; 

Quick!  to  his  hole,  the  frightened  ground-squirrel  hies. 

The  quail  flocks,  feeding  in  the  forest's  shade, 

With  whirring  wings,  desert  the  weedy  glade. 

Nearer  and  nearer,  come  the  fearless  hounds 

But  far  and  swift,  the  frightened  creature  bounds, 

Through  tangled  thickets,  reedy  marshes,  through; 

Until  his  graceful  form  is  lost  to  view. 

With  hopeless  zeal,  the  fierce  hounds  follow  on ; 

They  turn,  they  pause,  the  fleet-limbed  prey  is  gone. 

They  snuff  the  mountain  air,  but  all  in  vain, 

They  try  to  scent  the  missing  track  again ; 

At  last  they  stop — give  up  the  useless  chase — 

The  fleet-limbed  deer  has  won  the  breathless  race. 


Away  beyond  the  ridge's  pine-fringed  crest 
The  panting  creature  stops  at  last  to  rest, 
Sad-eyed  and  beautiful,  but  trembling  still, 
He  scans  with  anxious  gaze  the  distant  hill ; 
Fear  not,  proud,  gentle  creature,  still  for  thee 
All  Nature  spreads  her  table,  thou  art  free, 

[60] 


Free,  to  quaff  nectar  from  the  spring's  fair  face, 
To  view  in  glassy  pools,  thy  mirrowed  grace ; 
Free,  to  roam  leisurely  the  grassy  hills, 
Or  browse  the  tender  herbage  by  the  rills ; 
Free,  to  wade  knee-deep  in  the  reed-fringed  pond 
Or  rest,  at  noon-tide,  in  the  shade  beyond. 
Thy  late  pursuers,  baffled,  cease  their  chase, 
No  foe  will  harm  thee,  in  thy  resting-place; 
Soon,  with  thy  faithful,  boon  companions  near, 
Forgotten  all  thy  terror,  danger,  fear, 
Thy  fearless  feet  shall  roam  thy  native  sward 
Unstained,  unsullied  by  thy  warm  life  blood. 
The  hunger's  tiresome  search  is  all  in  vain, 
Lost  is  the  splendid  prize  he  hoped  to  gain; 
Yet  I  can  but  rejoice  that  thou  art  free, 
Fleet,  gentle  creature,  born  to  liberty. 


[61] 


WHEN  SANKEY  SANG 

I  longed  for  heavenly  harmony  to  raise 
My  soul  from  earth  to  heaven,  that  I  might  lose 
My  earthly  burdens  in  that  glory,  whose 
Walls  are  salvation,  and  whose  gates  are  praise, 
But  no ;  I  felt  the  worth  of  everything, 
When  I  heard  Sankey  sing. 

He  sang  of  Heaven,  but  deep  and  rich  and  strong 
A  mighty  undercurrent  seemed  to  speak ; 
To  fret  for  Heaven,  were  selfish,  mean  and  weak 
When   earth   needs   help   from   suffering  and   wrong; 
I,  patience  gained  for  duty's  tarrying, 
When  I  heard  Sankey  sing. 

I  was  a  little  tired  of  earth  before, 
A  little  weary  of  life's  common  things, 
I  wanted  golden  harps  and  angel  wings, 
On  sweeps  of  song  above  the  clouds  to  soar ; 
But  glorified,  seemed  every  common  thing, 
When  I  heard  Sankey  sing. 

O,  sadly  would  God's  work  unfinished  lie 
If  every  pilgrim  dropt  his  load  to-day, 
No  faithful  one,  "Thy  kingdom  come"  to  pray 
And  do  God's  will  on  earth  as  in  the  sky, 
None  patiently  to  Christ's  earth-cross  to  cling, 
No  Christian  left  to  sing. 


[62] 


BABY  MAY 

I  cannot  mourn  for  you  to-day 

Amid  life's  dizzy  whirl, 
I  miss  you  since  you  went  away 
And  yet  I  cannot  truly  say 
That  I  would  wish  you  back  to-day, 

Dear  little  angel  girl! 

I  cannot  sigh  for  you,  or  weep, 
It  may  seem  strange  and  wrong, 

But  woman's  path  at  best  is  steep 

Its  troubled  waters  dark  and  deep 

And  oh,  so  tranquil  is  thy  sleep, 
So  tranquil  and  so  long ! 

Sometimes  I  half  rejoice  to  know 

Thy  little  weary  feet 
Shall  never  stumble  tired  and  slow 
Up  life's  hard  road  of  sin  and  woe 
But  evermore  rejoicing  go 

Along  the  golden  street ; 

And  then  sometimes  a  magic  book 

Seems  opened  to  my  eyes 
Where  on  fair  scenes  I  long  may  look, 
Where  smiles  thy  face  from  flowery  nook 
Or  calm  as  when  thy  spirit  took 

Its  journey  to  the  skies. 


JOSEPHINE 

(The  last  word  spoken  by  Napoleon  the 
Great,  before  his  death,  in  the  prison  at  St. 
Helena,  was  the  name  of  his  first  wife,  the 
Empress  Josephine.) 

Sternest  soldiers  are  the  guards 
Of  these  rocky  battlements, 
Bright  the  glistening  of  their  swords, 
Keen  their  bristling  bayonets. 

Not  the  martialed  power  of  France 
Dares  this  fortress  height  to  scale, 
Britain  here  her  standard  plants, 
Streams  her  pennons  on  the  gale. 

Past  the  scowling  battlements, 
Past  the  British  lion  bold, 
Past  the  bristling  bayonets, 
Stalks  a  monster  grim  and  old. 

None  beside  has  dared  to  storm 
Fortress  rock,  or  prison  bar, 
Death,  with  sure  release,  has  come 
To  the  prisoned  Emperor. 

Burns  the  tropic  sun  o'erhead 
With  a  fervent,  lurid  glare. 
Sounds  the  soldier's  measured  tread 
Guarding  Britain's  prize  with  care. 

To  a  narrow  cell  consigned 
On  a  lonely  isle  outcast; 
Where  is  now  that  mighty  mind 
Midst  the  ruins  of  the  past? 


Does  the  fatal  Waterloo 
To  Napoleon's  mind  recall 
Martialed  armies  into  view 
Trooping  through  his  prison  wall  ? 

Amid  Russia's  frozen  snow, 
Over  Egypt's  burning  sands, 
Do  his  armored  warriors  go 
At  their  leader's  stern  commands  ? 

Does  the  eagle,  that  has  won 
Victory's  zenith  for  his  brow, 
Brighter  than  the  noon-day  sun, 
Thrill  with  pride  his  bosom  now? 

Or  does  she,  the  Empress  Queen, 
Careless  of  his  hopeless  fate, 
Grace  his  life's  brief  closing  scene 
In  her  royal  robes  of  state? 

Is  her  name  upon  his  lips 
Who  his  crown  and  crime  could  share, 
Watch  his  glory's  dark  eclipse 
And  forsake  his  deep  despair  ? 

One  face  only  does  he  see 
Fresh  on  recollection's  scroll; 
One  loved  name,  one  memory 
Soothes  at  last  his  troubled  soul. 

She,  the  wronged,  the  fair,  the  good, 

Victim  of  ambition's  greed, 

In  her  injured  womanhood 

Can  she  soothe  him  in  his  need? 


[65] 


Does  her  angel  spirit,  strong 
From  some  distant  sphere  descend, 
With  forgiveness  for  her  wrong, 
O'er  his  dying  couch  to  bend? 

Broken-hearted,  beautiful, 
Last  to  close  his  weary  eyes 
With  her  gentle  spirit  full 
Of  the  love  that  never  dies. 

He  the  strong  and  yet  the  weak, 
He  the  lofty  and  the  low, 
Moves  his  ashen  lips  to  speak 
Ere  the  monster  bids  him  go. 

One  alone  Napoleon  crowns 
First  and  last  his  Empress  Queen, 
List!  his  mighty  spirit  sounds 
Its  last  echo,  "JosePnme-" 


[66] 


BETHLEHEM 
(A  Christmas  Song.) 

Bethlehem,  fair  Bethlehem ! 
Judea's  glittering  lustrous  gem ! 
Of  thee,  unending  songs  shall  sing, 
Thou  birth-place  of  the  Saviour,  King. 

O  Bethlehem,  fair  Bethlehem ! 

Resplendent  stars  thy  heavens  gem; 

Stars  that  with  holy  radiance  shine 

And  angel  songs  are  ever  thine. 

O  Bethlehem,  bright  Bethlehem ! 

No  mist  of  time,  thy  light  can  dim. 

Thine  every  terraced,  vine-wreathed  hill 

Is  lit  with  heavenly  splendor  still. 
O  Bethlehem,  bright  Bethlehem ! 
Thou  loveliest  in  earth's  diadem, 
An  angel  choir  above  thee  sings 
Thou  birthplace  of  the  King  of  Kings! 

O  Bethlehem,  glad  Bethlehem ! 

We  see  thee  as  thou  wast  to  them 

Who  bore  their  costly  gifts,  afar, 

Beneath  thy  guiding  eastern  star. 
O  Bethlehem,  glad  Bethlehem ! 
We  fain  would  sing  of  thee,  with  them 
Whose  heaven-born  songs  majestic  rolled, 
As  heaven  swung  back  her  gates  of  gold. 

O  Bethlehem,  blest  Bethlehem ! 
Judea's  glittering,  lustrous  gem! 
Angelic  songs  seem  still  to  fall 
In  hallowed  music  over  all. 

O  Bethlehem,  blest  Bethlehem! 

When,  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

We  greet  again  our  Saviour,  King; 

Our  thoughts  will  turn  to  thee  and  sing. 


IN  THE  REDWOODS 

Before,  behind,  on  either  side  they  rise, 
Roots  in  the  ground  and  summits  in  the  skies, 
Huge  trunks  that  tower  like  ancient  pillars  high, 
Gigantic  roots  that  deep  embedded  lie 
And  starry  sprays  of  tiny  twiglets  swung 
To  the  still  breeze,  and  each  a  living  tongue 

Meeting  and  mingling  in  the  mournful  shades 
Whose  plaintive  sadness  all  the  air  pervades 
Like  an  imprisoned  soul  of  song  that  pines 
And  all  her  pining  into  music  twines, 
Deep  as  the  buried  roots  that  live  below, 
Sublime  as  the  proud  summit's  sunlight  glow, 
Yet  wandering  like  a  spirit  smothering 
The  prisoned  requiem  she  fain  would  sing 
That  ever  and  anon  will  swell  and  rise, 
Then  into  sombre  silence  sweetly  dies. 

By  yonder  circling  stream  wild  roses  throw 
Their  pale  pink  petals  in  the  depths  below 
And  where  obscurest  shades  dark  waters  hold 
Frail  feathery  ferns  their  fairy  fronds  unfold 
And  swaying,  stirring,  straying  o'er  the  brink 
Exhaustless  moisture  from  the  streamlet  drink; 
While  far  above  some  wandering  recluse 
Lets  all  his  wildest,  richest,  numbers  loose 
And  in  sonorous  song  sweet  sadness  drowns, 
And  stays  the  soothing  sense  of  softer  sounds, 


[68] 


Away  through  bending  boughs,  soft  shadows  through, 

He  speeds,  nor  pauses  once  to  bid  adieu, 

^Eolian  vespers  lead  the  listless  strain 

And  tiny  twiglets  tune  their  lyres  again, 

To  pensive  musing  every  fancy  goes 

And  Nature's  ballads  lull  to  sweet  repose. 

Beneath  the  tall  tree's  shade  a  cabin  lone 

Falls  into  ruin,  while  the  ceaseless  moan 

Above  its  desolation  shrieks  and  stirs 

Chanted  by  hosts  of  princely  conifers, 

Around  its  lowly  door  rank  verdure  thrives, 

The  yerba  buena  fresh  and  green  survives 

The  slow  decay  that  dooms  the  cabin  wall 

Of  which  prophetic  Nature  chants  the  fall, 

The  wild  wood  oxalis  in  beauty  spreads 

Matting  the  doorway  where  no  footsteps  tread 

And  plants  of  every  shade  of  emerald  hue 

Twist,  twine  and  tangle  all  the  door-yard  through; 

While  busy  chipmunks  seek  the  hazel  brush, 

Where  their  blithe  chattering  breaks  the  slumbrous  hush, 

To  gather  hoards  of  nuts  and  gaily  frisk, 

O'er  fallen  redwood  logs,  graceful  and  brisk. 

But  still  the  voices  of  the  trees  complain 
And  still  the  wandering  winds  sob  forth  the  strain 
Though  the  wild  wind  that  rocks  the  giant  trees 
Trembles  the  low  plants  through,  a  summer  breeze, 
Queen  of  the  West,  what  fortune  gave  to  thee 
Nature's  sublimest,  grandest  orchestra  ? 


[69] 


The  throbbing  keys  of  ocean  rise  and  lower 
Timing  the  lofty  choir  upon  the  shore 
No  other  clime  can  boast,  no  country  claim 
Thy  royal  heritage  of  world-wide  fame, 
Before,  behind,  on  either  side  they  rise 
Roots  in  the  ground  and  summits  in  the  skies. 

What  sound  of  distant  harmony  is  heard? 

The  redwoods  listen.    Hush !  their  twigs  are  stirred 

By  sea-breeze  notes,  Pacific's  organ  swells 

And  answered  from  the  mountains,  rocks  and  dells 

Before,  behind,  on  either  side  the  surge 

Of  praiseful  anthem,  of  prophetic  dirge, 

Soars  to  the  skies  and  backward  to  the  sea 

Queen  of  the  West,  this  is  thy  orchestra ! 


[70] 


UNREQUITED  LOVE 

He  was  a  youth  of  doubtful  age 
Not  more  than  forty,  one  would  guess, 
But  wise  as  many  an  older  sage 
And  faultless  in  his  dress. 

His  hat  was  of  the  latest  height 
And  hue,  such  as  the  dove  might  own, 
The  path  by  which  he  took  his  flight 
Was  smoky  with  cologne. 

And  oh !  the  fragrant  cheap  cigars, 
'Twould  take  a  Tennyson  to  dwell 
(In  words  that  journey  to  the  stars) 
On  his  aesthetic  sense  of  smell. 

Where'er  he  went  a  loud  perfume 
Swept  like  a  thunder-cloud  behind 
And  oh!   the  fragrance  of  his  room 
Fit  symbol  of  his  state  of  mind. 

For  as  the  poet  says,  he  was 
A  love-sick  swain,  that  common  bird 
Whose  sweetest  note  amid  the  buzz 
Of  daily  life  is  often  heard. 

Poor  Unrequited  Love,  his  sweets 
Were  lost  upon  the  desert  air, 
His  girl  was  tired  of  candy  treats 
Or  for  cologne  she  didn't  care. 

For  sigh  as  loudly  as  he  might 

And  smile  as  sweetly  as  he  could 

She  kept  discreetly  out  of  sight 

Or  passed  him  speechless  where  he  stood. 


His  candy  in  his  pocket  lodged, 
His  verses  to  his  desk  returned, 
Returning  freight  he  vainly  dodged 
Yet  still  his  love  the  higher  burned. 

No  more  within  the  lamp's  warm  glare 
His  charms  of  rosy  splendor  bloom, 
He  walks  alone  in  open  air 
Beneath  the  rising  moon. 

His  faithful  friend  whose  willing  ear 
Oft  heard  his  whispered  confidence 
Is  airing  all  his  secrets  dear 
Across  the  orchard  fence. 

His  pillow  swims  in  hopeless  tears 
And  when  his  weary  track 
Leads  past  some  serious  girls,  he  hears 
A  giggle  at  his  back. 

But  still  with  pluck  to  be  admired 
He  hovers  sweetly  'round 
Though  his  eye  once  with  joy  inspired 
Now  rests  upon  the  ground. 

And  still  his  bosom-friend  repeats 
His  latest  agonies 
And  still  his  widely  lavished  sweets 
Come  back  to  bless  his  eyes. 

O  sad,  sad  story  to  relate ! 

Ye  damsels  all  give  ear, 

And  ye  who  hope  to  share  his  fate 

The  needful  moral  hear ; 


[72] 


Only  a  cruel,  heartless  girl 
Could  such  perfumery  scorn, 
Compel  a  lad  of  tender  years 
To  wander  forth  forlorn. 

Only  a  brave  and  dauntless  youth 
Of  forty  more  or  less 
Could  take  this  Latin  motto's  truth 
To  comfort  his  distress: 

"Dum  Spiro  Spero" — very  short 
But  quite  appropriate, 
Listen,  ye  lads  of  fainter  heart 
Who  share  a  similar  fate. 

Epitaph 

Here  lie  the  stumps  of  cheap  cigars, 
The  ghosts  of  cheap  cologne 
Float  coldly  'neath  the  twinkling  stars; 
Where  has  the  hero  gone? 


[73] 


BOAT  RIDING  ON  BLUE  LAKES,  CALIFORNIA 

Dip  the  light  oar  by  the  shadowy  shore, 
And  raise  it  twined  with  a  dripping  wreath 

Of  trailing  mosses,  tangle'd  and  torn, 

Curls  from  some  nymph  of  the  lakeside  shorn, 

Or  fringes  from  the  mantle  worn 

By  some  emerald-robed  mermaid  reclining  there. 

O,  gladly  the  sun  with  his  brightest  smile 
Bursts  forth  from  his  cloudy  sheath, 

And  the  blue,  blue  heavens  lie  overhead, 
And  the  blue,  blue  waters  beneath ! 

The  beautiful  azure  lake  unrolled 

Mirrors  her  fringed  brim 
The  sunbeams  quiver  in  pools  of  gold, 
And  the  gnarled  old  trees,  and  the  mountains  old, 
And  the  vines  that  droop  o'er  the  waters  cold, 

Are  reflected  the  depths  within. 
Merrily  sing,  while  the  light  boat  speeds 
Away  from  the  shore  with  its  tangled  weeds; 
Sing !  till  the  hoary  hills  awake 
And  the  forest  trees  into  music  break. 
Countless  gifts  at  her  hands  we  take, 
Have  we  no  songs  for  the  bonny  blue  lake  ? 
O,  the  glorious  sun  with  a  smile  benign 
Has  burst  from  his  cloudy  sheath, 
And  the  blue,  blue  heavens  above  me  shine, 

And  the  blue,  blue  waters  beneath ! 

Lilies,  lilies  along  the  shore, 
They  stand  in  the  rushes  high, 


74] 


Lightly  they  bend  to  the  dripping  oar, 
Around  them  the  blue,  blue  waters  pour 
And  above  them  the  blue,  blue  sky. 

The  tremulous  sunbeams  quiver  and  dance, 
Then  pause  as  if  held  in  a  magic  trance. 

What  care  we  for  aught  beside, 

As  o'er  the  beautiful  lake  we  glide? 

Do  we  sigh  for  a  glimpse  of  sunny  France, 

Could    Switzerland's    snow-capped    mountains    stern 

Or  Italy's  breeze  our  joy  enhance? 

Let  the  German  sing  of  his  castled  Rhine, 
And  the  Scot  of  his  hills  of  heath, 

When  my  own  blue  heavens  above  me  shine, 
And  the  blue,  blue  waters  beneath. 


[75] 


THE  SONG  OF  HOPE 

Why  do  you  sing,  blithe  meadow-lark,  in  joyous  cheerful  peals? 
Night  has  just  torn  his  mantle  dark,  from  off  the  waving  fields, 

The  winds  but  bear  your  notes  away 

Where  last  year's  tenements  decay; 

Soon,   soon,   shall    fade   the   dawning   day,   and   perish   in   the 
gloaming. 

But  still  you  sing,  nor  count  the  cost  of  morning's  fleeting  hours 
Nor  deem  that  all  your  notes  are  lost  among  the  heedless  flowers ; 

Your  last  year's  nestlings  all  have  flown 

They  carol  now  in  parts  unknown, 
But  still  you  warble  here  alone,  as  one  who  knows  no  sorrow. 

Go  back  again,  thou  joyous  one,  go  to  thy  last  year's  nest. 
Alas !  thy  work  is  all  undone,  oh,  art  thou  not  unblest ! 

Where  swung  thy  cozy  domicile 

A  few  loose  straws  are  left  to  tell, 
While  those  who  in  it  used  to  dwell  have  flown  away  forever. 

But  still  unmindful  of  your  loss,  you  trill  in  joyous  glee, 
Your  music  floats  the  fields  across,  from  sorrow  ever  free ; 

No  thought  of  vanished  Summer-times, 

No  longings  linked  with  other  climes, 

No   toll    of   sorrow's    mournful    chimes,    disturbs    its    sprightly 
measure. 

Oh !  in  thy  breast  a  harp  is  hung  that  sorrow  cannot  bind, 
The  song  it  evermore  has  sung,  was  not  for  grief  designed; 

It  knows  no  measure  of  despair, 

Complaint  can  find  no  echo  there; 
It  has  no  chords  for  grief  and  care,  for  hope  is  all  its  being. 


[76] 


Why  do  you  sing,  oh  heart  of  mine,  and  join  the  lark's  glad  strain, 
Your  little  day  will  soon  decline  to  never  dawn  again ; 

Your  last  year's  joys  lie  cold  and  dead 

And  stir  not  from  their  silent  bed 
And  stalking  dimly  in  their  stead,  a  thousand  disappointments? 

Oh !  in  your  inmost,  secret  shrine  a  deathless  harp  is  hung, 
Its  music  is  forever  thine,  by  other  lyres  unsung; 

It  holds  no  phantom  in  its  scope, 

No  dark  foreboding,  there,  may  grope; 
Tis  timed  and  tuned  by  deathless  hope  and  hope  is  all  its  being. 

Trill,  happy  lark,  though  ruined  lies  the  home  once  all  your 

pride 

Though  time  all  loving  skill  defies,  it  yet  shall  be  defied ; 
Chant  o'er  the  wrecks  of  stern  decay 
Hope's  happiest,  holiest  prophecy, 

The   wind   may  bear  your  notes   away  but   mine   shall   sound 
forever. 


[77] 


CONNECTING  LINKS 

There  are  cables  through  the  ocean 
There  are  wires  across  the  land 
There  are  unseen  chords  uniting 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 

There  are  links  of  love  that  lengthen 

'Till  they  measure  land  and  sea, 

There  are  chains  that  time  will  strengthen 

'Till  they  span  eternity. 

Farther  than  the  mighty  cable 
These  electric  chains  may  reach 
Through  the  heart  of  life's  great  Babel 
Throbbing  with  unuttered  speech, 

Miles  of  land  or  sea  can  never 

Faithful  loving  friends  divide 

Though  great  yawning  chasms  sever 

Many  dwelling  side  by  side. 

Then  may  distance,  distance  only 
Have  the  power  to  part  us  here, 
Though  oft  longing,  though  oft  lonely 
We  can  think  with  hopeful  cheer 

Of  the  links  of  love  that  lengthen 

'Till  they  measure  land  and  sea, 

Of  the  chains  that  time  will  strengthen 

'Till  they  span  eternity. 


[78] 


BEAUTIFUL  THOUGHTS 

How  beautiful  to  think  amid  the  crosses, 
Amid  the  petty  cares  and  daily  losses 

That  every  heart  must  know 
That  somewhere  far  above  this  life's  brief  story, 
Somewhere  above  earth's  mingled  grief  and  glory 

There  is  no  care,  no  woe. 

How  sweet  to  think  when  racked  with  pain  and  anguish, 
When  called  in  sickness  and  disease  to  languish 

'Till  life  is  but  despair, 
That  somewhere  far  beyond  our  dim  horizon 
In  the  bright  city  of  a  realm  Elysian 

There  is  no  anguish  there. 

How  comforting  when  bowed  and  almost  broken 
In  the  wild  sorrow  of  a  loss  unspoken 

When  fled  are  life  and  breath, 
To  look  above  the  wrecks  of  earthly  hoping, 
To  know  beyond  where  love  is  blindly  groping 

There  are  no  tears — no  death ; 

So  amid  all  the  trials  and  tribulations 
That  to  all  ages  and  all  earthly  stations 

Life's  few  swift  years  may  bring 
How  beautiful  to  think,  while  clouds  are  lowering 
Beyond  where  there  impending  gloom  is  towering 

Somewhere  the  angels  sing. 


[79] 


UNDER  THE  ALDERS 

Here  within  the  alder's  shadow,  in  this  cool  retreat, 
Sheltered  by  the  leafy  branches 
From  the  scorching  heat ; 
I  have  found  a  sweet  seclusion 
From  all  outward  things, 
Flinging  every  care  and  worry 
On  the  zephyr's  wings. 

In  the  liquid  depths  and  ripples  of  the  slumbrous  stream, 
With  the  wild-bird's  song  vibrating 
Vine-wreathed  banks  between, 
I  have  sunk  life's  proud  ambitions 
And  her  petty  strife, 
Gleaning  fresher  thought  and  vigor 
For  the  march  of  life. 

Could  I  ask  a  throne  more  charming  than  this  rocky  ledge, 
Sloping  down  in  gradual  cadence 
To  the  water's  edge? 
Could  I  ask  a  song  more  thrilling 
Than  the  anthem  sung 
By  choristers  coquetting 
Dark-green  boughs  among? 

Not  a  sound  to   interrupt  them  comes   from   groves   or   hills, 

Here  they  chatter,  scream  and  carol 

At  their  own  sweet  wills ; 
Save  that  down  the  dusty  road-way,  winding  bare  and  brown, 

Now  and  then  a  carriage  passes 

To  the  distant  town, 
Or  some  teamster  noisily  rattles  o'er  the  wooden  bridge, 

Making  all  the  sleeping  echoes 

Bound  from  ridge  to  ridge. 


so] 


Or  perhaps,  a  dark-browed  Indian  wanders  slowly  by 
Glancing  at  this  tranquil  shelter 
With  his  fierce  dark  eye. 
Do  these  gnarled  heroic  warriors 
Towering  side  by  side, 
Waken  no  vague  recollection 
Of  his  vanquished  tribe? 

Do  no  thoughts  of  nature's  grandeur  light  his  darkened  mind, 
As  with  noiseless  tread,  he  slowly 
Leaves  them  all  behind? 
Poor,  lone  man,  a  cloud  of  darkness 
O'er  your  mental  vision  frowns, 
Will  not  the  "Great  Spirit"  lift  it 
In  those  upper  hunting  grounds? 

Overhead  the  boughs  uniting  form  a  temple  high 
With  its  massive  domes  extending 
Toward  the  filmy  sky; 
While  amid  its  cloistered  stillness 
On  warm  Sabbath  eves, 
One  may  hear  the  sweetest  praises      „ 
Floating  through  the  leaves. 

Nature  here  unclasps  her  volume,  wrought  in  flowers  and  vines, 
From  each  page  I  gladly  study 
Her  own  fair  designs; 
Rugged  rocks  and  sands  and  mosses 
Lessons  sweet  impart, 
Stamping  many  a  thought  of  beauty 
Deep  on  mind  and  heart. 

Sitting  in  this  old  cathedral,  in  its  sombre  shades 
Where  the  eloquence  of  nature 
Every  heart  persuades; 


81] 


He  who  does  not  feel  its  grandeur 
In  his  very  soul 
Must  be  in  his  nature  frozen 
As  the  Arctic  pole. 

Grand  old  trees,  a  thousand  questions, 
I  would  yet  propound, 
For  I  know  with  weird  traditions 
Your  past  lives  abound ; 
I  would  bid  you  tell  your  story 
Since  your  lives  began, 
But  I  know  you  never  told  it 
To  the  ear  of  man; 

So  content  with  simply  knowing  what  you  are  to-day, 
Happy  as  the  laughing  children 
'Neath  your  boughs  at  play, 
I  can  gather  stores  of  wisdom 
From  your  very  looks ; 
I  can  feel  what  sages  never 
Found  in  hoards  of  books. 


THINK  FOR  YOURSELF 

How  many  we  meet  as  we  travel  along 

Who  go  with  the  tide  of  the  popular  throng, 

What  other  men  think,  they  think,  and  no  more, 

What  other  men  do,  doing,  they  are  secure; 

So  on  with  the  current  they  eddy  and  whirl, 

Never  pausing  to  look  for  Truth's  beautiful  pearl; 

But  what  if  Galileo  long  years  ago 

Had  not  dared  to  steer  'gainst  the  tide's  changeless  flow  ? 

And  oh !  what  if  Luther  had  gone  with  the  tide 

And  done  what  they  did,  and  done  nothing  beside? 

And  what  if  Columbus  had  buried  his  light 

And  let  the  world  grope  in  its  ignorant  night, 

Because  all  alone,  he  with  Truth  had  to  stand, 

Where  now  might  have  languished  our  beautiful  land? 

What  banner  of  Truth  over  error  would  wave 

If  none  ever  dared  false  opinion  to  brave? 

But  they  clung  to  their  pearls  while  the  mocking  crowd  passed 

And  Truth  twined  for  them  fadeless  laurels  at  last. 

And  many  another  whose  name  is  forgot 

But  whose  thoughts,  words,  and  deeds  into  sunbeams  are  wrought, 

That  stream  down  the  ages  to  light  some  dark  place 

Or  shine  like  the  stars  on  a  benighted  race; 

So  whate'er  you  do,  though  you  travel  alone, 

Think  for  yourself,  have  a  mind  of  your  own; 

For  the  thoughts  we  are  thinking  must  fashion  the  world, 

And  if  false,  or  if  true,  they  shall  sometime  be  hurled 

Far  out  of  our  reach  down  the  centuries'  flight; 

As  clouds  to  their  day,  or  as  stars  to  their  night. 


THE  COYOTE 

Forth  from  his  lonely  haunt, 
Lean,  evil-eyed  and  gaunt 

Stealthily  stealing 
To  where  on  low  chemise 
Hang  tattered  shreds  of  fleece 
Guiding  to  where  in  peace 

The  flocks  are  kneeling. 

Crackling  of  underbrush 
Breaks  on  the  forest's  hush 

Some  wanderer  telling, 
Then  on  the  startled  ear 
Far  off  and  then  more  near 
Sounds  forth  distinct  and  clear 

A  hideous  yelling. 

Haste  little  lambs  and  flee, 
Quick  comes  an  enemy 

Reckless  with  hunger, 
Lean  are  his  ugly  jaws, 
Hollow  his  evil  eyes, 
As  from  his  den  he  goes 

Seeking  for  plunder. 

Sheep  running  here  and  there 
Helpless  from  sudden  fear 

Warned  of  their  danger, 
What  has  the  calm  flock  seen  ? 
Close  by  the  wild  ravine 
With  fierce  and  threatening  mien 

Stands  a  gaunt  stranger. 

Short  is  the  cruel  chase, 
Then  from  a  sheltered  place 


Strange  sounds  ensuing 
Tell  of  a  victim  dead, 
Tell  of  a  meal  soon  spread, 
Tell  of  a  fate  most  dread 

Wily  pursuing. 

Hark!  Now  from  far  away 
Echoes  a  low,  deep  bay 

From  ridge  to  hollow, 
Ears  pricked  up  at  the  sound, 
Then  with  a  sudden  bound 
Clears  he  the  gory  ground ; 

Hounds  soon  will  follow. 

Crackling  of  underbrush, 
Then,  as  before,  a  hush 

Deep  and  oppressive 
Save  for  the  frightened  feet 
Far  off  in  quick  retreat 
And  now  and  then  a  bleat 

Still  apprehensive. 

Soon  on  the  ridge's  height 
Hunters  appear  in  sight, 

Hounds  traveling  faster 
Find  where  the  prey  was  slain 
Down  in  the  wild  ravine ; 
Where  has  the  culprit  gone? 

No  one  can  answer. 

Hunters  of  high  repute 
Back  from  a  vain  pursuit 

Weary  and  baffled, 
Stealthy  and  cunning  foe 
Still  your  sly  ends  pursue. 
Culprits  more  low  than  you 

Escape  the  scaffold. 

[85] 


EARTH  AND  SKY 

We  claim  the  earth  as  ours  to  sell  and  buy 

None  claim  the  sky. 
To  the  broad,  bright  dominion  of  the  Sun 

Titles  have  none. 
Mile  after  mile  it  stretches  on  afar 

From  star  to  star, 
Span  after  span  extend  its  arches,  proud, 

From  cloud  to  cloud, 
Rulers  are  born  or  chosen  for  the  earth 

Throughout  its  girth, 
The  sky's  clear  distance  beautiful  and  broad 

Is  ruled  by  God ; 
No  petty  despot  will,  one  planet  hath 

Swerved  from  its  path 
Or  caused  the  loyal  clouds  to  tribute  pay 

By  night  or  day. 
We  change  the  earth's  green  surface  with  our  hands 

Lay  waste  its  lands, 
Hew  down  its  forests  or  with  noise  and  shock 

Tear  up  its  solid  rock ; 
No  feeble  blundering  hand  can  touch  to  mar 

Sun,  cloud  or  star. 
Vast  domes  and  monuments  we  rear  and  plan, 

Great  rivers  span, 
But  not  one  dome  'midst  those  above  we  lift 

Nor  bridge  one  rift 
In  all  the  white  cloud-continents  that  lie 

Strewn  o'er  the  sky. 
We  launch  strong  ships  to  sail  the  ocean  o'er 

From  shore  to  shore; 


86 


We  cannot  send  one  fairy  yacht  to  ply 

The  blue  waves  of  the  sky. 
We  call  the  spot  of  earth  our  hands  have  sown 

By  right  our  own, 
But  never  title  to  the  fields  above 

Can  mortal  prove; 
We  watch  it  stretched  above,  before,  behind 

O'er  all  mankind; 
We  claim  a  little  while  these  earthly  clods, 

The  sky  is  God's. 
Ah !  could  we  take  upon  some  summer  night 

Our  joyful  flight 
Up  to  the  blue,  blue  heights  that  look  so  fair 

And  pausing  there 
Look  down  to  earth  through  far  immensity 

What  would  we  see? 
One  tiny  star  that  none  may  sell  or  buy 

In  God's  great  sky. 


[87] 


THE  BUGLE  AND  THE  BATTLE 

Clear  are  the  bugle  tones  and  sweet 
That  the  ether  waves  of  the  sky  repeat, 
Harsh  is  the  battle's  roar  and  din 
That  the  stern  hills  echo  back  again. 

Bugle,  sweet  bugle,  the  bard  of  fame 
With  his  deathless  song  has  linked  thy  name 
And  thy  silver  tones  like  echoes  play 
Through  the  humble  minstrel's  sweetest  lay. 

Battle,  stern  battle,  on  history's  page 
Thy  hosts  in  perpetual  conflict  rage, 
In  heroic  song  is  thy  glory  told, 
From  age  to  age  is  thy  discord  rolled. 

Peace  spreads  out  her  wings  o'er  our  land  afar 
She  has  hushed  the  blood-chilling  clang  of  war, 
But  the  battle  of  life  goes  on  around 
Though  the  cannon's  voice  is  no  dreaded  sound. 

There  is  discord  and  danger  in  human  life 
But  listen,  blent  with  its  toil  and  strife 
There  are  beautiful  notes  that  rise  and  fall 
In  heavenly  harmony  through  it  all. 

Life  has  its  battle,  its  toilsome  fight 
Where  the  wrong  oft  triumphs,  o'er  the  right, 
Where  the  strong  and  the  brave  to  their  foemen  yield 
And  the  fallen  are  strewn  o'er  the  fiery  field. 

Life  has  its  struggle,  its  march  of  toil 
Where  opposing  forces  brave  effort  foil, 
Where  the  harsh  discordant  notes  of  strife 
Are  heard  on  the  battle  ground  of  life. 

[88] 


Life  has  its  bugle-tones,  high  and  sweet 
Above  the  discord  of  trampling  feet ; 
There  is  music,  courage,  hope  and  cheer 
In  the  bugle-tones  that  all  may  hear. 

Above  the  stifling  of  smoke  and  dust 
They  float  to  earth  on  the  wind's  wild  gust, 
They  soar  and  sing  midst  the  thickest  strife, 
The  high,  sweet  bugle-tones  of  life. 

0  clear  voiced  bugle,  your  notes  shall  speed 
The  fainting  heart  and  the  panting  steed 
Till  truth  shall  triumph,  while  error  dies, 
And  the  blast  of  victory  thrills  the  skies ! 

Till  the  dust  and  the  smoke  of  the  fiery  fray 
Like  the  mists  of  the  morning  have  cleared  away, 
Till  the  bravest,  noblest  hosts  have  won 
And  the  toilsome  march  of  the  world  is  done. 

Awake  stern  hills  to  the  battle's  clash, 
Its  thunders  deepen,  its  lightnings  flash; 
Far,  far  above  it  and  over  it  all 

1  can  hear  the  sound  of  the  bugle  call. 


[89] 


EASTER  DAY 

The  happiest  day  of  all  the  year  is  this 

By  song  and  sunshine  ushered  in, 

Only  the  tyranny  of  sin 

Can  cloud  her  perfect  joyousness, 

Only  the  minor  strain  of  wrongs 

Can  sadden  her  immortal  songs. 

Christmas  we  sang  a  Saviour's  birth, 
To-day  that  Saviour  crucified 
Has  risen  triumphant,  glorified, 
And  waked  the  Easter  song  of  earth, 
That  song  by  Easter  angels  led 
That  Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead. 

And  the  fair  Easter  lilies  rise 

From  the  long  burial  underground, 

Symbols  of  life  in  victory  crowned 

Of  Earth  responding  to  the  skies, 

Of  Nature  bursting  Earth's  brown  crust, 

Of  beauty  risen  from  the  dust. 

Each  year  the  lilies  hear  the  call 
Of  prophecy,  of  hope  and  trust, 
Awake  and  sing  who  dwell  in  dust 
And  the  fair  lilies  waken  all, 
And  old  Earth  listens  for  the  voice 
That  bids  her  waken  and  rejoice. 

Softly  the  waking  call  doth  come: — 
Awake  and  sing,  all  hearts  that  dwell 
Earth-burdened  like  the  lily  bell, 


90] 


Wake  the  glad  hymn  on  tongue  long  dumb, 
Let  angels  roll  the  stone  away 
From  life  and  light  and  love  to-day. 

And  may  the  voiceless  lilies  bear 
To  every  soul  a  message  breathed 
In  fragrance  and  with  beauty  wreathed, 
To  sorrow, — hope;  to  sin, — a  prayer, 
And  happy  hearts  go  forth  to  swell 
The  anthem  of  the  lily  bell. 

And  sweet  shall  sound  the  lily  chime 
Glad  Easter  coming,  here,  and  gone, 
'Till  death  and  night  and  sin  shall  dawn 
Into  a  nightless  morning  clime 
With  all  Earth-darkness  cast  aside 
And  all  Earth-brightness  glorified. 


[91] 


AMBITION'S   CLIMAX. 

There  is  no  climax  in  Ambition's  scope, 
Behold  her  wrestling  with  the  angel,  Hope, 
And  beating  back  the  Demon  of  Despair, 
Yet  looking  for  a  brighter  crown  to  wear; 
Despair  enchains  her,  Hope  her  transient  guest, 
Unfurls  her  wings,  and  leaves  her  still  unblest; 
But  naught  can  keep  her  quenchless  ardor  back; 
She  bears  the  struggling  Demon  in  her  track, 
Mounts  on  the  wind's  wild  wings,  her  zeal  on  fire; 
And  treads  the  paths  to  which  her  dreams  aspire. 
She  goeth  forth  to  conquer,  and  the  fall 
Of  giant  empires,  and  the  leveled  wall 
Of  each  strong  city,  bathed  in  human  blood, 
Lift  up  their  voices,  'till  from  where  they  stood 
Goes  forth  the  oft-repeated,  mournful  cry 
Of:    "Fallen!  fallen!  fallen!"  whose  reply 
Is  peal  on  peal  of  victory's  bugle  blast 
In  echoing  cadence,  dying  out  at  last; 
But  what  to  her  is  triumph  but  a  force 
To  spur  her  onward  in  her  upward  course? 
Lo,  as  the  last  proud  empire  mourns  her  fall, 
Ambition  weeps  that  she  hath  conquered — all, 
Lifts  up  her  hands,  that  earth  can  never  feel, 
And  pants  for  other  worlds  to  conquer  still. 
She  goeth  forth,  new  countries  to  explore, 
Dark  miles  of  inland  and  untrampled  shore 
She  breaks  upon,  and  her  enkindled  seal, 
Like  a  bright  torch,  their  rayless  mines  reveal. 
Into  the  vaults  of  Time,  she  penetrates, 
And  knowledge,  new,  discovers  and  creates; 


[92] 


Braves  the  wild  jungle  with  unfaltering  breath, 

And  speeds  unguarded  to  the  jaws  of  death; 

Defies  the  poisoned  arrows,  in  her  way, 

Of  fiendish  human  beasts  that  scent  their  prey, 

Faces  the  dread  contagion  of  disease, 

If  in  each  awful  guise,  new  light  she  sees 

Bursts  forth  again,  with  priceless  treasure  fraught, 

Stars  to  illume  the  broad  realm  of  thought. 

But  does  she  then  recline  in  peace  content, 

Her  zeal  consumed,  her  fadeless  ardor  spent? 

No.    While  the  life-blood  surges  in  her  veins, 

Her  zeal  revives,  her  ardor  bright  remains. 

A  captive  in  the  palace-courts  of  ease, 

With  strengthening  aim,  her  restless  powers  she  frees. 

Willingly  are  the  silken  fetters  torn 

In  pride  and  boasting,  by  so  many  worn, 

Gladly  she  speeds  the  glittering  portal  through 

And  greets  the  triumph  that  her  steps  pursue. 

She  gathereth  in  the  gold  of  Ophir  bright, — 

Food  to  her  mind  and  beauty  to  her  sight, 

She  layeth  up  the  treasures  of  the  mine 

No  more  in  grandeur's  coronet  to  shine; 

On  her  bright  store,  no  prying  eye  may  gaze, 

That  swift  increases  with  the  fleeting  days. 

No  eye  may  know  its  beauty  but  her  own; 

She  revels  in  her  treasure-house  alone, 

And  grudges  the  mere  pittance  that  sustains 

The  blighted  mind  and  body  that  remains. 

"More!  More!"  her  cry,  and  eager  is  her  clasp, 

O'er  added  riches  falling  in  her  grasp — 

On  gold,  gold,  gold,  her  energies  must  feed; 

But  gold  has  failed  to  satisfy  her  greed. 

Her  riches,  like  some  youth-immortal  tree 


[93] 


Grow  up — she  perishes  in  poverty. 

She  delves  in  Wisdom's  boundless,  peopled  realm, 

Resplendent  hopes,  her  youthful  sense  o'erwhelm, 

With  living  beings,  do  her  thoughts  converse, 

Who  throng  the  romance  of  the  universe. 

She  treads,  a  victor,  through  each  starry  host, 

And  sails  the  cloud-locked  seas  from  coast  to  coast ; 

On  the  ignoble  earth,  her  mind  reflects, 

And  finds  new  food  in  Time's  long-buried  wrecks. 

She  culls  the  simplest  blossom  from  the  stalk 

And  finds  it  grander  than  the  greatest  rock. 

She  muses  on  the  human  frame,  divine, 

And  cries :  "O  man,  what  architect  is  thine  ?  " 

And  marvels  that  one  dares  to  desecrate 

The  temple  that  he  never  could  create. 

Through  the  rich  realm  of  knowledge,  on  she  speeds 

Nor  stops  to  question  where  her  pathway  leads. 

Jungles  of  thought,  she  struggles  bravely  through, 

Emerges,  but  to  plunge  into  a  new; 

Hungering  still  for  knowledge,  as  at  first, 

While  each  fresh  draught  does  but  increase  her  thirst, 

Starving  for  higher,  loftier,  grander  themes; 

No  climax  glitters  in  her  loftiest  dreams. 

She  grasps  her  pen,  her  glittering  pen  of  gold 

Set  with  its  diamonds,  bright,  a  thousand-fold : 

Truth,  deathless  truth,  would  she  write  down  for  men, 

Sprinkled  with  beauty,  from  her  glowing  pen. 

The  years  have  brought  their  bitter  and  their  sweet, 

Nations  have  cast  their  laurels  at  her  feet, 

Her  name  is  written  on  Fame's  rising-stars, 

But,  to  and  fro,  behind  its  prison  bars 


[94] 


Like  a  caged  bird,  each  fluttering  impulse  flies, 
In  hopeless  hope  to  pierce  the  farthest  skies ; 
Beating  their  very  lives  out  in  their  round 
And  falling,  helpless,  hopeless,  to  the  ground, 
Like  a  sharp  dagger,  in  her  fluttering  heart, 
Is  her  bright  pen,  so  glorious  at  the  start; 
When  sweet  success,  so  lavish  in  the  past, 
Crowns  not  each  effort,  brighter  than  the  last, 
She  sweeps  the  canvas,  and  fair  forms  are  there, 
Instinct  with  life,  they  seem,  in  vital  air; 
Sweet  roses  bloom  and  feathered  songsters  sing 
And  ivy  garlands  to  old  ruins  cling. 
Ships  (angel  pinioned)  ride  the  dark  blue  waves 
Or  dash  in  lonesome  wrecks  above  their  graves ; 
And  beings  live,  immortal  as  her  art, 
To  touch  the  well-springs  of  the  human  heart. 
She  casts  her  brush  aside,  her  grief  to  quell. 
Where  is  the  magic  of  that  secret  spell  ? 
What!  are  success's  dreams  so  quickly  o'er 
When  each  is  not  more  glorious  than  before? 
She  strings  her  viol  to  the  western  breeze ; 
She  presses,  joyfully,  the  ivory  keys: 
And  waves  roll  in  upon  the  sandy  beach. 
Her  dreams  suggest  such  notes  she  cannot    reach, 
Beyond  her  grasp,  they  roll  and  rise  and  surge 
And  break  on  imagery's  farthest  verge ; 
She  hangs  her  harp  upon  the  willows,  then, 
And  sighs  that  naught  can  be,  but  what  has  been. 
She  lifts  her  voice  in  pure  and  soulful  song. 
She  steals  some  notes  that  to  the  birds  belong. 
But  voice,  divine  and  human,  like  a  link 
'Twixt  earth  and  Heaven,  yet  to  earth  must  sink. 


[95] 


Daughters  of  music,  this  your  knell  of  woe. 

Wafted  to  Heaven,  then  to  earth  brought  low. 

Ambition,  what  can  now  thy  longing  bless 

When  all  thy  powers  are  lost  in  feebleness? 

She  sways  the  mortal  mind  with  golden  speech, 

Her  words  are  jeweled  vessels,  launched  to  reach 

The  farthest  shore  that  reason  can  command, 

And  bring  back  precious  cargoes  to  her  hand. 

Unsatisfied,  Ambition's  dreams  eclipse 

The  deepest  waters  where  her  bright  oar  dips. 

Each  effort's  climax  is  the  throne  from  whence 

She  mourns  the  fall  of  human  excellence. 

She  gazes  out,  with  clear  prophetic  eye 

On  avenues,  that  plain  before  her  lie. 

She  reads  the  longings  of  her  throbbing  heart. 

She  sees  the  vanity  of  human  art, 

Whose  glittering  future,  howsoe'er  sublime 

Is  prisoned  by  the  narrow  walls  of  Time ; 

Whose  triumphs  are  but  mockeries,  at  last, 

Like  faded,  withered  garlands  of  the  past. 

She  sees  the  devotee  of  fame  and  pride 

Turn  from  her  brightest  crown,  unsatisfied. 

She  sees  the  conqueror  at  last  deplore 

The  glories  of  his  final  victory  o'er; 

And  all,  yes,  all,  of  fleeting  Time's  success, 

Sinks  down  to  failure  and  to  nothingness; 

When  o'er  their  sunset  hath  no  glad  hope  dawned 

To  whisper  of  a  brighter  day  beyond : 

She  turns  away  from  Time's  decaying  things 

And  casts  her  crown  before  the  King  of  Kings; 

Her  riches,  honor,  glory,  power,  and  might, 

She  lays  them  down  with  all  their  earthly  blight : 


[96] 


He  rends  for  her  Time's  heavy  curtain  through, 

Eternity  lies  bright  before  her  view; 

As  a  small  inlet  of  the  ocean's  shore 

Seems  the  great  future,  she  beheld  before 

Like  stormless,  boundless  seas  before  her  roll 

Through  Him,  her  leader,  more  than  conqueror; 

Treasures,  unfading,  glitter  now  for  her, 

Her  feet  may  pace  this  lonely  planet  round 

But  still  the  universe  lies  bright  beyond. 

Her  mind  may  grasp  earth's  knowledge,  but  before, 

Wisdom  reserves  a  deeper,  loftier  lore, 

Exhaustless  as  the  ocean's  full  supply 

Of  freshening  moisture,  unto  earth  and  sky, 

Glad  rays  of  light  upon  her  path  descend. 

Ambition  grasps  her  never-ending  end ; 

Changes  a  narrow  cell  with  bolted  door, 

For  glory  unto  glory,  evermore. 


[97] 


TRUE  NOBILITY. 

Some  souls  ascend  like  incense  ever  burning 
In  golden  censers  classed  with  common  clay, 

Soaring  to  sunlit  heights  sweet  lessons  learning, 
No  frowning  cloud  their  viewless  wings  can  stay. 

They  tune  their  harps  to  nature's  varied  story, 
Vibrating  all  the  tender  hidden  strings; 

They  deem  the  clouds  below  but  transitory 
And  join  the  happy  song  the  skylark  sings. 

What  though  their  hands  may  toil  with  strong  endeavor 

At  tasks  unworthy  of  a  noble  mind, 
Oft  stony  pathways  lead  to  heights  that  never 

Would  welcome  us  were  these  not  left  behind. 

The  pure  air  of  the  mountains  seemeth  clearer 
Because  of  the  dense  fogs  that  lie  below, 

So  disappointments  bear  the  spirit  nearer 

To  measure  out  the  things  that  it  should  know. 

Did  no  cloud  mar  our  skies'  serenest  beauty, 
No  blasts  of  sorrow  hush  our  sweetest  song; 

We  might  not  care  to  find  our  highest  duty 
Nor  prize  the  good  beyond  the  sway  of  wrong. 

We  might  forget  the  possible  awaiting 
For  those  who  by  an  ever-onward  flight 

Reach  the  sublime  of  mind  and  soul  creating 
Beyond  the  fogs,  beyond  the  clouds  of  night. 

We  might  not  look  above  the  present  pleasure 
Were  bluest  skies  and  sunbeams  ever  ours, 

We  might  not  seek  to  find  a  purer  treasure 

Were  all  our  sunlit  pathways  strewn  with  flowers. 

[98] 


Some  never  rise  to  heights  of  thought  and  feeling 

But  in  the  stagnant  air  below  abide, 
Impenetrable  clouds  arise  concealing 

The  purity  they  to  themselves  denied. 

Living  like  beasts,  no  higher  thought  possessing 

Than  base  iniquity  or  selfish  gain, 
No  wish  for  good  in  all  their  lives  expressing, 

Ah !  who  can  say  they  do  not  live  in  vain  ? 

What  though  they  move  among  the  higher  classes 
In  social  life  and  live  in  splendid  state, 

Not  always  he,  who  most  of  wealth  amasses, 
When  measured  mind  and  soul,  is  truly  great. 

But  they  who  live  above  earth's  vile  pollution 

Whose  outward  things  are  not  their  greatest  worth, 

Whether  in  public  life  or  home  seclusion, 
These  are  the  true  nobility  of  earth. 

Wrhether  the  gentle  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle, 
Or  that  that  sways  the  mighty  powers  of  state, 

Ennobling  virtue  shall  alone  be  able 
To  make  the  dens  of  evil  desolate. 

Virtue  toils  on,  above  the  clouds  impending, 

To  heights  all  sparkling  in  the  sunlight's  glow; 

Up,  onward,  to  a  purer  air  ascending, 

Leaving  the  crowd  submerged  in  fogs  below. 


[99] 


LINES    TO   A   MAIDEN. 

Be  not  vain,  oh,  beautiful  maiden ! 

Though  thine  eyes  shine  like  violets  blue, 
Though  thy  lips  are  as  rosebuds  from  Eden 

And  thy  curls  vie  with  sunbeams  in  hue. 

Remember  that  violets  will  wither, 
That  rosebuds  will  fade  and  decay; 

For  beauty  cannot  last  forever, 

'Twill  fade  with  the  sunbeams  away. 

Is  there  time  for  false  pride  and  vain  pleasure, 
Is  there  time  in  this  life's  little  day, 

When  the  few  golden  hours  that  we  treasure 
Are  silently  slipping  away? 

When  hearts  that  were  happy  at  dawning, 
Ere  evening  are  shrouded  in  gloom; 

When  all  the  fresh  dewdrops  of  morning 
Have  passed  from  our  sight  ere  'tis  noon? 

Life  is  not,  sweet  maiden,  all  beauty, 
Nor  is  it  a  bright,  gilded  dream; 

We  all  have  a  life-work,  a  duty, 

And  earth's  things  are  more  than  they  seem. 

We  may  think  that  the  days  that  have  vanished 

Forever  have  passed  and  are  o'er, 
But  the  golden  grain  has  not  been  garnered, 
The  harvest  time  lieth  before. 


[100] 


Our  lives,  they  are  not  a  mere  story, 
Our  labor  will  not  be  in  vain, 

But  bathed  in  a  sunlight  of  glory 
These  lost  hours  will  blossom  again. 

Be  good  and  do  good,  Time  may  rob  thee 
Of  beauty   ere  many  years  roll; 

But  eternity  cannot  destroy 
A  beautiful  immortal  soul. 


[10!] 


THE    LANGUAGE    OF    THE    STARS. 

Ye  brilliant  orbs   that  deck  the  sky, 
Shrouded  in  deepest  mystery, 

To  thee  my  song  I  sing! 
I  long  to  know  of  what  thou  art, 
Of  this  great  universe  a  part, 
I  feel  thy  glory  in  my  heart 

While  to  the  earth  I  cling ! 

I  long  to  traverse  thy  bright  spheres, 
To  stand  above  the  flight  of  years 

Remembering  earth's  dark  sod; 
The  terrors  of  the  world  defy 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky, 
Singing  of  immortality, 

And  tell  the  world  of  God ! 

How  wondrous  is  thy  silent  speech! 
Unto  my  soul  thy  knowledge  teach 

And  tell  me  more  of  One, 
Who  formed  thy  glittering,  gilded  gems, 
Who  framed  thy  starry  diadems, 
Who  all  the  golden  glory  blends 

Of  the  resplendent  sun! 

What  numerous  questions  to  me  rise 
Whene'er  I  view  the  dazzling  skies 

Or  muse  on  heaven's  dome! 
O  distant  worlds,  so  far,  so  near, 
What  beings  breathe  thy  upper  air 
And  live  within  thine  atmosphere, 

And  make  thy  realms  their  homes ! 


[102] 


Tell  me  thou  glittering  evening  star, 
Tinting  the  western  sky  afar, 

On  heaven's  blue  curtain  traced ; 
Hast  thou  green  fields  and  nodding  flowers, 
Rivers  and  hills  and  city  towers? 
Art  thou  a  living  world  like  ours 

Or  but  a  barren  waste? 

Mysterious  questions,  answered  not, 
With  deepest  meaning  ever  fraught, 

Flooding  this  life  below, 
When  rolling  years  no  more  shall  be, 
When  man  shall  find  his  destiny, 
When  time  unveils  eternity; 

Perhaps,  we  then  shall  know. 

The  gracious  Ruler  over  all 

Who  formed  this  changing  earthly  ball 

And  spake  a  world  from  naught, 
All  of  thy  gems  so  rich  and  rare, 
All  of  thy  glories,  dazzling  fair, 
With  wondrous  skill  and  loving  care, 

With  His  own  hand  hath  wrought. 

Earth,  all  thy  myriad  voices  raise 
To  sing  of  all  God's  wondrous  ways 

'Till  heaven's  high  arches  ring. 
Lo,  from  the  clouds  Thy  voice  is  heard, 
The  mountains  tremble  at  Thy  word, 
The  heavens  declare  Thy  glory,  Lord; 

The  stars  Thy  praises  sing! 


ALONE 

Think'st  thou  the  criminal  in  some  dark  retreat 

To  which  from  lowering  justice  he  hath  flown, 

While  die  the  echoes  of  pursuing  feet, 

Is  left  in  peace,  alone? 

Think'st  thou  that  undisturbed  he  stops  to  rest, 

Forgetting  the  dark  crime  that  lies  behind? 

Think'st  thou  that  naught  but  triumph  fills  his  breast, 

That  no  iron  bands  his  sense  of  freedom  bind? 

Not  so;  for  though  within  a  lone  abode 

His  wicked  heart  of  victory  may  boast, 

The  fears  that  crush  his  spirit  like  a  load 

Are  far  more  frightful  than  a  martialed  host. 

Stronger  than  chains  that  bind  the  helpless  slave 

Are  the  iron  fetters  of  the  imprisoned  soul, 

More  horrible  the  boughs  that  o'er  him  wave 

Than  funeral  knells  that  for  the  just  man  toll ; 

Darkness  more  dense  than  that  of  starless  night 

Falls  like  a  sable  curtain  o'er  his  mind, 

And  o'er  that  darkness,  dawns  no  morning  light ; 

Who  would  in  such  a  frame  a  refuge  find? 

A  silence,  like  the  stillness  of  the  grave 

Hangs  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  forest  shrine 

And  chills  the  trembling  coward,  where  the  brave 

Would  notice  but  a  solitude  sublime. 

A  crackling  in  the  underbrush — he  starts — 

'Tis  but  a  fawn  that  seeks  the  grassy  glade — 

A  rustle — through  the  trees  a  grey  squirrel  darts ; 

He  jumps,  and  rises  to  his  feet  dismayed. 

Each  simple  sound  breaks  on  his  guilty  ear 

Like  some  dread  omen  of  a  coming  doom, 

What  wonder,  in  each  rustle  he  can  hear 

The  outward  echo  of  an  inward  gloom; 

And  in  the  guilty  horror  of  despair 

Fears  that  the  day  might  bring  his  deeds  to  light 

And  thinks  to  hide  the  blackened  robes  they  wear 

[  104] 


Under  the  sable  covering  of  the  night. 

And  hopes  in  vain;  for  lo,  before  him  stands, 

A  Judge,  more  awful  than  the  one  he  fears ; 

The  laws  of  justice  written  on  his  hands, 

Laws  that  shall  stand  unchanged  to  endless  years, 

Not  as  a  Saviour  to  the  abandoned  wretch 

Who  sinks  in  terror  to  the  speaking  sod, 

Not  with  the  angel  Mercy's  wings  outstretched; 

But  as  the  just,  unchanged,  avenging  God. 

"Jehovah,"  sing  the  stars,  the  hills  repeat, 

The  rocks  and  forest  trees  the  chorus  share, 

Jehovah  is  the  awfulness  complete; 

"Jehovah,"  trembles  on  the  burdened  air. 

Memory  awakes,  can  Memory  ever  die? 

Long  she  has  slept,  but  now  her  life  revives, 

And  terrified,  afraid  to  reason:  "Why?" 

Vainly  to  hush  her  voice  the  villain  strives. 

Vainly  ?  Ah !  What  a  book  of  wasted  years  she  holds, 

What  records  to  defile  the  peaceful  sod, 

What  scenes,  what  deeds  of  darkness  she  unfolds! 

O  man !  and  thou,  the  noblest  work  of  God ! 

Fallen,  lost,  ruined,  by  thine  own  consent, 

A  demon  crowd,  thy  fit  companions,  they, 

On  thy  destruction  all  their  arts  intent. 

Well  mayst  thou  flee  by  night  and  hide  by  day. 

Alone!  fain  would  the  villain  be  alone, 

His  Maker,  no  more  trouble  his  abode, 

His  memory,  like  the  vanished  moments  flown, 

His  conscience,  buried  with  its  fearful  load. 

Ah !  vain  his  wish,  though  ocean  wastes  be  crossed, 

Or  lie  concealed  within  the  forest's  gloom, 

The  crimes  that  marked  the  years,  now  worse  than  lost, 

Will  haunt  him  too,  ah !  far  beyond  the  tomb. 

Who  would  escape  the  presence  of  his  God, 

Flee  to  the  desert?  Lo,  His  throne  is  there 

Whithersoever  human  feet  have  trod 

The  Lord,  Jehovah,  reigneth  everywhere. 

[105] 


How  slow  the  dragging  moments  seem  to  glide 
To  the  transgressor  in  his  living  grave. 
Ah!  words  unutterable  cannot  describe 
The  dread  companions  of  the  culprit's  cave! 

********* 

Think' st  thou,  the  Christian  on  the  lonely  isle, 

Banished  from  every  tie  of  heart  or  home 

Far  from  a  friendly  word  or  loving  smile, 

Is  hopeless  and  alone  ? 

No;  though  he  mourns  that  human  love  no  more 

May  soothe  the  lonely  pathway  he  must  tread, 

And  when  the  weary  journey  shall  be  o'er 

No  loved  one  comes  to  soothe  his  dying  bed; 

Yet  in  his  soul  a  calm  and  perfect  peace, 

Deep  as  the  ocean,  fathomless  as  thought 

Commands  the  fury  of  the  tempest  cease 

And  bids  the  lonely  wanderer  murmur  not. 

'Tis  evening,  from  the  Eastern  star  there  shines 

A  radiance,  unnoticed  there  before ; 

While  the  blue  wavelets,  traced  in  beauteous  lines, 

In  a  new  grandeur  break  upon  the  shore ; 

He  listens  to  the  breaker's  ceaseless  moan, 

They  wake  to  being,  voices  of  the  past, 

Memory  is  there,  with  scenes  of  friends  and  home, 

Like  leaves  upon  the  eddying  current  cast. 

He  fathoms  the  sublimity  of  time, 

He  views  the  emblem  of  life's  troubled  sea. 

Breaker  and  crag  in  unity  divine, 

Sing  to  his  soul  a  sweeter  melody; 

And  as  he  keeps  his  vigil  there  alone 

He  feels  the  living  presence  of  a  friend, 

Holier  than  friendship's  voice  that  loving  tone, 

"Lo,  I  am  with  thee,  even  to  the  end." 

He  lifts  his  voice;  hushed  is  the  balmy  air 

A  benediction  rests  on  Nature's  things, 

Angelic  beings  breathe  their  notes  of  prayer, 

And  wait  in  silence  while  the  Christian  sings : 

FI061 


"Jesus,  the  sweetest  name  on  mortal  tongue." 

Listen,  ye  lonely  rocks,  ye  waves  rejoice, 

"Jesus,"  by  countless  hosts  of  angels  sung, 

Awake,  lone  ocean  isle,  and  lend  a  voice! 

Hark !  from  surrounding  cliffs  a  chorus  rises : 

"Jesus,  to  thee  be  praise  and  glory  given." 

Angels  repeat  it  through  the  vaulted  skies 

And  bear  the  unfinished  anthem  on  to  heaven; 

Weary,  he  lays  him  down  in  peace  to  sleep 

And  pleasant  dreams  his  stony  pillow  calm, 

Bright  guardian  angels,  vigil  o'er  him  keep 

And  breathe  upon  the  air  a  solemn  psalm. 

Away  on  other  shores  for  him  they  mourn 

Friends,  who  are  shrouded  in  funereal  gloom 

Dark  are  the  robes  of  sorrow  for  him  worn 

As  one  who  sleeps  within  a  watery  tomb ; 

But  oh !  the  bright  companions  'round  him  now 

Are  dearer  than  when  other  friends  were  there, 

Brighter  the  crowns  upon  each  pearly  brow, 

More  glorified  the  saintly  robes  they  wear. 

Ah !  not  alone  the  Christian  vigil  kept 

On  the  lone  isle,  and  faced  his  fears  unawed ; 

When  guardian  angels  watched  him  while  he  slept 

And  One  was  with  him  like  the  Son  of  God. 


[107 


ON  THE  EVENING  TRAIN 

Night  after  night,  week  after  week,  month  after  month  and 

year  after  year, 
Clad  in  her  garments  of  dingy  black,  ragged  and  wrinkled,  she's 

waiting  here 
Watching  the  passenger  trains  come  in,  silent  and  sad  in  the 

self  same  place, 
Anxiously  viewing  the  careless  crowd,  eagerly  scanning  each 

stranger  face. 

Never  a  word  she  speaks  as  she  waits  patiently  every  night  for 

the  train, 

Sadly  and  silently  turning  away,  over  and  over  again; 
Children   have   grown  to   be   women   and  men   since   the   first 

evening  she  waited  there, 
Close  by  the  station,  silently,  with  that  eager  vacant  stare. 

Ah!  that  was  thirty  years  ago,  where  she  looked  for  three  or 

four  engines  then 
She  watches,  unnoting  the  flight  of  time,  a  score  of  trains  come 

in; 
And  the  city  has  grown  to  twice  its  size,  yet  faithful  still  at  her 

post  she  stands 
Grasping  her   old   worn   traveling  bag   tight   in   her   wrinkled 

hands. 

The  station  employees  scarcely  heed  the  thin  bent  figure  and 

anxious  face, 
They  have  seen  her  there  'till  she  seems  to  them  almost  like  a 

part  of  the  place; 


[108] 


If  any  of  them,  as  they  pass  her  by,  kindly  warn  her  of  coming 

snow  or  rain, 

She  only  says,  with  a  faint  sad  smile — 
"He  promised  to  come  on  the  evening  train." 

When  the  lights  are  extinguished,  the  crowd  dispersed,  wearily 

she  will  walk  away 

Only  to  come  to  her  lonely  post  with  a  feebler  step  next  day ; 
Whom  is  she  looking  for?  you  ask. 
Perhaps  it  is  not  worth  the  telling  o'er 
The  same  old  story  I  know  you've  heard  many  a  time  before. 

He  was  her  sailor  lover  and  she,  courted  by  many,  young  and 

fair 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  graceful  form  and  sunshiny  golden  hair; 
She  stood  that  day  where  she's  standing  now,  watching  the  train 

'till  it  passed  from  view, 
Never  doubting  but  he  would  prove  faithful  to  death  and  true; 

He  had  gone  on  a  voyage  across  the  sea  promising  to  return  in 

the  Spring 
When,  with  the  chime  of  the  early  year,  their  bridal  bells  would 

ring; 
But  the  Spring  flowers  bloomed  and  the  blithe  birds  sang  and  she 

waited  and  waited  in  vain 
For  her  sailor  lover  never  returned  and  no  message  came  to 

explain. 

Whether  he  met  with  disaster  or  death,  or  proved  to  his  promise 

false  and  untrue 
No  one  can  prove  or  even  guess,  for  nobody  ever  knew ; 


[109] 


Wild  with  anxiety,  worn  with  grief,  disease  had  found  her  an 

easy  prey, 
Flickering  between  life  and  death  for  many  a  week  she  lay. 

And  when  she  rose  from  her  weary  couch,  restored  to  life  and 

health  again, 
This  one  thought  throbbed  in  her  vacant  mind:  "He  promised 

to  come  on  the  evening  train." 
So  down  to  the  station  she  daily  walks,  standing  alone  at  the 

corner  there, 
Closely   scanning   each   stranger   face   with  that   eager,   vacant 

stare. 

She  sees  friends  meet  when  the  trains  come  in,  with  clasping  of 

hands,  with  smiles  and  tears 
And  fond  embraces  she  often  sees,  and  lovers'  greetings  she  often 

hears ; 
But  the  face  that  she  looks  for  among  the  throng  will  never 

gladden  her  sight  again, 
Poor  faithful  heart,  you  will  soon  forget  the  broken  vow  of  the 

evening  train. 


[no] 


LOVE'S  COUNTERFEITS 

There's  no  invention  underneath  the  sun 

So  basely  counterfeited, 
Its  similes  since  first  the  world  begun 

Have  half  the  race  outwitted; 
Like  spurious  coins  in  form  and  color  true 

Put  into  circulation, 
These  counterfeits  are  passing  bright  and  new 

Exact  in  imitation. 

True  love  is  like  a  coin,  changeless  and  pure, 

Bright  from  the  mint  of  virtuous  affection, 
Whose  solid  worth  lies  in  its  gold  secure 

Stamped  with  the  soul's  reflection; 
Though  Time  may  mar  with  rude  and  hasty  hands 

Its  brilliancy  and  beauty, 
Its  gold  unspoiled  beneath  the  surface  stands 

Alloyed  with  common  duty. 

False  love  is  like  the  counterfeiter's  coin, 

A  criminal  deception, 
Although  a  while  its  face  like  gold  may  shine 

To  close  inspection, 
Not  long  it  needs  the  wear  that  must  ensue 

Its  character  to  settle, 
Its  gilt  departs  and  leaves  exposed  to  view 

Its  worthless  metal. 

He  who  treads  stealthily  his  secret  dens 

Of  fraud  and  knavery  dreaming, 
For  his  own  selfish,  vicious,  lawless  ends 

Another's  ruin  scheming, 
He  is  the  type,  yet  nobler  is  his  art 

Than  his  who  makes  to  glitter 
Base  metal  for  the  pure  gold  of  the  heart, 

— Love's  counterfeiter. 

[in] 


THE  THIEF 

The  sweet  wild  roses  told,  told  me 
While  the  south  wind  sobbed  in  answering  grief, 
As  they  clutched  with  their  wary  thorns  to  hold  me, 
With  trembling  pink  lips  they  told  me,  told  me, 
And  the  wild  birds  chanted— "A  thief,  a  thief !  " 

He  came  from  the  streets  of  a  sunset  city 
Where  his  name  was  held  in  high  esteem, 
But  alas !  alas !  'tis  the  world's  great  pity 
That  people  are  not  always  what  they  seem. 

She  was  as  rich  in  nature's  beauty 

As  the  sweet  wild  roses  she  loved  to  hold, 

Timidly  locked  in  the  safe  of  duty 

Lay  her  heart's  rich  treasure,  her  love's  pure  gold. 

Alas!  alas!  the  unguarded  minute 
When  the  wild  rose  maiden  crossed  his  track, 
When  he  spied  her  treasure  and  sought  to  win  it, 
The  thief,  who  had  nothing  to  give  her  back. 

Did  he  take  her  honor,  her  gems,  her  money? 
No,  none  of  these.    Is  it  nothing  worth 
That  he  blighted  her  youth's  bright  Eden  sunny 
And  left  for  her  future  a  dead  cold  earth? 

And  what  to  him  was  his  boasted  treasure? 
So  small  the  triumph  in  truth  appears — 
To  feed  his  pride  for  a  few  hours'  pleasure 
On  the  happiness  of  a  life's  long  years. 


[112] 


Is  it  nothing  to  walk  with  a  heart  that's  broken 
Through  days  that  grow  longer  than  happy  years  ? 
O  the  worth  of  earth's  gold  may  be  spoken,  spoken 
But  the  worth  of  the  heart  is  not  told  in  tears ! 

And  what  would  men  say  if  they  knew  it,  knew  it  ? 
"They  would  say  to  his  hurt,  his  hurt,  his  hurt," 
Sang  the  birds  and  the  roses,  the  brook  trilled  through  it 
"O  men  would  say,  'He's  a  flirt,  a  flirt/  " 

But  God  looks  down  on  that  sunset  city 
(The  God  of  nature,  of  joy  and  grief) 
On  the  broken  bird  with  a  father's  pity 
And  God  knows  his  earth  has  no  baser  thief. 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN 

We  bring  no  rich  gifts  like  the  wise  men  of  old ; 
No  myrrh  and  frankincense,  no  silver  and  gold; 
No  glittering  treasures  afar  do  we  bring 
To  lay  at  the  feet  of  our  glorious  King. 

The  songs  the  glad  shepherds  heard  ages  ago 
Have  melted  away  like  the  flakes  of  the  snow; 
The  costly  gifts  glittered  to  molder  and  rust; 
The  Bethlehem  manger  has  crumbled  to  dust. 

His  voice  like  the  breath  of  the  lilies  so  fair 
Has  floated  away  on  the  wings  of  the  air ; 
And  the  places  He  trod,  whether  pathway  or  street, 
Are  hallowed  no  more  by  the  prints  of  His  feet. 

We  bring  no  rich  gifts  like  the  wise  men  of  old ; 
No  myrrh  and  frankincense,  no  silver  and  gold; 
We  go  not  to  worship  o'er  Judea's  plain 
The  King  who  was  born  through  all  ages  to  reign. 

For  reigning  in  heavenly  glory  arrayed, 
He  wants  not  earth's  gifts,  that  but  glitter  to  fade 
Her  gold  would  be  dim  by  those  pavements  so  fair; 
Her  incense  a  cloud  in  that  glorified  air. 

But  dearer  the  hearts  full  of  love  that  we  bring, 
And  sweeter  our  prayers  to  our  glorious  King, 
Than  all  the  rich  gifts  that  they  brought  Him  of  old; 
Than  myrrh  and  frankincense,  than  silver  and  gold. 


114] 


And  the  throne  where  He  reigneth  shall  never  decay, 
Though  the  heavens  and  earth  shall  have  vanished  away ; 
And  the  hearts  that  we  bring  in  His  temple  shall  shine, 
When  melted,  like  all  the  bright  gold  of  the  mine. 

So,  we  bring  no  gifts  like  the  wise  men  of  old; 
No  myrrh  and  frankincense,  no  silver  and  gold, 
And  go  not  to  worship  o'er  Judea's  plain 
The  King  now  enthroned  in  a  heavenly  fane. 


[us] 


"CONSIDER  THE  LILIES" 

"Consider  the  lilies,"  they  toil  not  nor  spin 
Nor  lose  their  fresh  sweetness  in  striving  to  win 

The  raiment  they  wear; 
Yet  Solomon  clad  in  his  glory  complete 
With  the  lilies  so  perfect,  so  pure  and  so  sweet, 
That  sprang  up  to  blossom  and  fade  at  his  feet, 

Could  never  compare. 

"Consider  the  lilies,"  in  each  bud  concealed 
Lies  a  wonderful  lesson  in  beauty  revealed 

Of  trust  and  content; 

Behold  how  they  bloom  in  the  fresh  sunny  air 
Without  thought  of  complaint,  without  murmur  of  care, 
For  the  Lord  has  provided  the  raiment  they  wear 

'Till  their  short  lives  are  spent. 

"Consider  the  lilies,"  how  soon  their  sweet  breath 
Is  scattered  and  lost  and  they  molder  in  death 

In  the  soil  where  they  grew ; 

Yet  from  the  green  turf  where  their  fair  forms  are  laid 
From  the  dew-sprinkled  sod  where  they  wither  and  fade 
They  shall  spring  in  new  verdure  and  freshness  arrayed 

To  blossom  anew. 

"Consider  the  lilies,"  shall  He  who  bestows 
Such  care  on  a  flower  that  a  little  while  grows 
Then  yields  to  its  fate, 


[116] 


Neglect  for  His  children  their  wants  to  provide 
With  whom  He  has  promised  to  ever  abide. 
And  their  forms  from  the  turf  where  they  fade  side  by  side 
Anew  to  create? 

"Consider  the  lilies,"  behold  how  they  grow! 
Arrayed  in  such  glory  as  none  could  bestow 

But  an  infinite  God ; 
And  back  to  the  garden  of  Gethsemane 
And  the  lily-wreathed  waters  of  deep  Galilee 
They  carry  us  surely  as  streams  to  the  sea 

To  the  paths  that  He  trod. 


[117] 


SADNESS  AND  MIRTH 

At  a  beautiful  starry  gateway 
Two  sister-spirits  met, 
And  paused  to  talk  of  the  country 
To  which  they  both  were  sent; 
.One  wore  a  robe  of  sunbeams  of  gold 
Buttoned  with  sparkling  stars, 
Her  bright  eyes  were  rilled  with  merriment 
As  she  stood  by  the  crystal  bars. 
In  one  hand  she  held  a  basket 
Filled  with  roses,  ruby  red, 
And  a  smile  of  rare  sweet  beauty 
Played  over  her  face  as  she  said: 
"Sweet  sister,  in  that  far,  distant  land 
We  will  both  have  our  part  to  play; 
Let  us  journey  together,  hand  in  hand, 
Down  the  beautiful  milky  way ; 
For  I,  over  many  a  cheerless  path 
Must  scatter  my  roses  red, 

And  you  must  strew  thorns  o'er  the  long,  long  road 
That  all  of  mankind  must  tread. 
And  I  must  bring  the  world  gladness 
And  give  to  it  Love's  sweet  wine; 
But  you  must  teach  the  world  sadness 
And  mingle  your  cup  with  mine. 
And  I  must  give  to  the  reapers 
A  harvest  of  song  to  reap, 
I  must  teach  them  to  smile  and  laugh 
But  you  must  teach  them  to  weep." 
As  she  spoke,  she  shook  her  silken  curls 
And  opened  the  starry  gate 
"Come,  sweet  sister,  come,  hasten!"  she  said 
"For  our  mission  cannot  wait !" 
The  other  stood  with  her  head  bowed  down 
And  her  face  was  so  sad  and  pale, 
And  down  o'er  her  shadowy,  cloudy  robe 

[118] 


Fell  a  beautiful,  misty  veil; 

In  one  hand  she  held  a  basket  of  thorns, 

In  the  other  a  mystical  cup, 

And  she  sighed,  and  she  sadly  shook  her  head 

As  she  lifted  her  dark  eyes  up: 

"I  will  go,"  she  said,  "but  your  cup  is  sweet 

While  mine  is  bitter  to  taste." 

And  gently  within  the  jeweled  hand 

Her  own  tiny  hand  she  placed; 

And  they  moved  away  in  the  gray  twilight, 

By  evening  breezes  fanned, 

And  sought  for  the  world  to  which  they  were  sent, 

Two  sisters,  hand  in  hand. 

They  traversed  life's  pathways,  year  after  year, 

With  a  soft  and  noiseless  tread, 

One  strewing  her  thorns  all  along  the  way 

And  the  other  her  roses  red. 

They  dwelt  ofttimes  with  the  great  and  high 

And  oft  with  the  poor  and  the  low, 

And  mingled  with  giddy  revelry, 

And  with  scenes  of  sorrow  and  woe; 

And  the  infant's  soft,  peaceful  slumbers 

Were  broken  with  smiles  and  tears; 

The  maiden  trembled  to  see  beyond 

A  mirage  of  hopes  and  fears ; 

And  the  matron  marveled  that  roses  and  thorns 

All  life's  winding  pathway  line; 

And  the  aged  sighed  that  the  bitter  and  sweet 

Were  mixed  in  life's  mingled  wine ; 

And  so  they  mused  o'er  their  daily  paths 

The  aged,  and  the  young,  and  fair, 

And  theirs  was  only  life's  common  lot, 

A  portion  that  all  must  share. 


[119 


THE. TOMB  OF  MAN 

What  is  your  pageantry,  O  earth! 

And  what  your  wealth,  O  sea! 
What  is  your  grandeur,  spangled  heavens, 

Upheld  in  majesty? 

Resplendent  jewels  flash  and  gleam 
On  earth's  triumphant  breast, 

But  midst  her  brightest  galaxies 
Man  goeth  to  his  rest. 

Down  in  the  depths,  the  coral  reefs 
Shine  through  the  glistening  wave; 

But  midst  the  gardens  of  the  deep 
The  mortal  makes  his  grave. 

Yon  heavens  in  seas  of  azure  lie, 

And  continents  of  cloud, 
They  wrap  our  frail  humanity 

In  one  vast  burial  shroud. 

Beauty  and  glory  vie  to  claim 
Earth's  fruitage  and  her  bloom, 

To  wreathe  in  posthumous  designs 
The  universal  tomb. 

They  gather  up  the  sea's  rare  pearls 
And  strew  them  o'er  her  bed, 

They  chant  with  all  her  troubled  waves 
The  dirges  of  her  dead. 


[120] 


They  visit  on  their  starry  wings 
The  heaven's  celestial  spheres, 

And  from  the  precincts  of  the  clouds 
They  shed  the  mourner's  tears. 

Yet  shall  earth  see  her  treasures  raised 
From  out  her  moldering  sod, 

Yet  shall  the  sea  behold  her  waves 
Yield  up  their  spoil  to  God. 

Yet  shall  yon  heavens,  now  looking  down 

On  mortal  blight  and  ban, 
See  immortality  come  forth 

From  the  great  tomb  of  man. 


[121] 


IONE  VALLEY 

Bright  rainbow  hues,  that  paint  the  scene, 

Where  childish  eyes  first  gaze, 

Though  mists  of  time  may  intervene 

To  dim  your  brightest  rays; 

Yet  through  those  mists,  bright  sunbeams   shine, 

That  long  ago  have  shone. 

Thy  memories  are  forever  mine, 

Fair  Valley  of  lone. 

Thy  flowers,  like  benedictions  sweet, 

In  fields  of  fancy  grow; 

As  once  they  nodded  at  my  feet 

In  that  fair  long  ago; 

And  still  imagination  strays 

Through  grain-fields,  zephyr-blown; 

As  in  thy  Summer's  golden  days, 

Fair  Valley  of  lone. 

Thy  roses,  wet  with  nature's  tears, 
Round  memory's  urn  are  twined; 
They  strew  the  pathway  of  the  years, 
The  cloisters  of  the  mind. 
Their  velvet  petals,  crimson  red, 
Lie  strewn  by  fancy  thrown ; 
Where  thoughts  of  thee  are  wont  to  tread, 
Fair  Valley  of  lone. 


[122] 


From  censers,  wrought  of  sunbeam  gold, 

Thy  lilac's  incense  burn; 

And  apple-blossoms  sweet  unfold, 

Round  memory's  golden  urn; 

And  happy  birds  and  honey  bees, 

Still  chant  in  joyous  tone; 

Among  the  vines  and  locust  trees, 

Fair  Valley  of  lone. 

Thy  purple  clustering  grapes  are  bright 
With  never  fading  dyes, 
Thy  cherries,  steeped  in  yellow  light, 
To  match  thy  sunset  skies; 
And  russet  pears  and  apricots 
To  blushing  ripeness  grown; 
Brightened  thy  shady  orchard  plots, 
Fair  Valley  of  lone. 

But  like  the  mildew  on  the  rose, 
A  blight  forever  there, 
Thy  charms  of  rosy  bloom,  unclose 
To  miasmatic  air; 


Yet  we,  who  for  the  rose  of  health 
To  other  climes  have  flown ; 
May  sing  of  all  thy  golden  wealth, 
Fair  Valley  of  lone. 

The  wire-bridge,  stretched  from  bank  to  bank 

Across  the  brimming  creek; 

The  hill,  with  wild-flowers  growing  rank 

The  childish  hands  to  pick ; 

The  goats  that  clambered  up  the  rock, 

Rich  meadows  newly-mown; 

And  Fido,  barking  down  the  walk, 

Are  scenes  of  thine,  lone. 

Ye  foothills  of  Sierra's  Range, 

Green  be  your  sunny  slopes! 

Ye  fertile  fields,  where  never  change 

In  recollection  gropes; 

Ye  banks  and  rocks  and  fences  old, 

With  moses  overgrown; 

Of  sunbeams  be  your  settings,  gold, 

Fair  Valley  of  lone. 


Could  I  but  wander  to  and  fro 
'Midst  fairest  scenes  to  roam, 
I'd  take  the  wings  of  morn  and  go 
To  childhood's  valley  home. 
The  bird,  with  freedom  in  its  breast, 
Though  lured  from  zone  to  zone; 
Returns  to  find  its  earliest  nest, 
Fair  Valley  of  lone. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  LOVER'S  LEAP 

Where  the  narrow  grade  winds  up  and  down 
And  the  stage  rattles  past  to  the  distant  town, 
Where  the  torrent  pours  down  the  canon  wild, 
Where  the  rocks  in  shapeless  walls  are  piled. 
Where  the  speckled  trout  o'er  the  ripples  play 
And  the  grasses  droop  to  the  cascade's  spray, 
Where  the  wild  deer  pauses  at  eve  to  drink 
And  leaves  his  tracks  on  the  mossy  brink, 
High  over  the  stream  towers  a  rock-hewn  steep 
That  is  known  by  the  name  of  "Lover's  Leap." 

'Tis  an  Indian  legend  of  storied  fame 

That  gave  to  the  stern  old  rock  its  name, 

A  legend  of  love  and  jealous  hate, 

Of  a  dusky  maiden  desolate, 

Her  swarthy  lover  a  truant  gone 

With  a  dark-browed  rival,  and  following  on 

With  a  fierce,  wild  look  in  her  midnight  eyes 

On,  on,  through  the  forest  gloom  she  flies 

Over  fallen  logs,  o'er  hill  and  dell, 

Thick  with  manzanita  and  chaparral, 

'Till  at  last  she  stops  where  the  waters  sweep 

'Round  the  ragged  turrets  of  Lover's  Leap. 

But  why  does  she  turn  from  the  torrent's  edge 
With  one  startled  glance  from  ledge  to  ledge 
Ere  she  bounds  away  like  a  frightened  fawn 
With  her  raven  hair  on  the  breezes  blown? 
She  knows  where  the  path  leads  up  the  height 
And  thither  she  takes  her  breathless  flight ; 
Higher  and  higher  her  light  feet  bound 
'Till  the  shadowy  forest  is  left  behind, 


[  126 


SQUAW  ROCK,  OR  LOVER'S  LEAP 


NEAR  CLOVERDALE,  CAL. 


With  a  heart  of  stone  and  an  eye  of  fire 
Possessed  with  one  wild,  one  fierce  desire 
That  they  her  reckless  revenge  may  reap 
Where  they  rest  at  the  foot  of  Lover's  Leap. 

She  has  reached  the  end  of  her  journey  now 

And  stands  alone  on  the  mountain's  brow. 

Far  over  the  rocks  she  stoops  to  lean 

What,  what  has  the  Indian  maiden  seen? 

For  she  tears  a  stone  from  a  broken  rift 

As  large  as  her  swarthy  arms  can  lift, 

And  stands  transfixed  on  the  very  edge 

Gazing  wildly  down  on  the  rocky  gorge 

Where  four  hundred  feet  from  the  mountain's  crest 

Her  lover  and  rival  have  paused  to  rest; 

A  crash,  a  cry,  a  heavy  thud — 

And  the  spot  is  vacant  where  she  stood 

And  the  three  lie  there  in  a  mangled  heap 

On  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  Lover's  Leap. 

Thus  the  tragic  tale  of  the  rock  is  told 

And  its  romance  envelopes  the  mountain  old 

And  the  travelers  passing  by  each  day 

Look  up  at  the  turrets  grim  and  gray 

And  repeat  the  tradition  whose  early  fame 

Gave  the  stern  old  rock  its  romantic  name, 

And  the  grasses  fall  o'er  the  rocks  below 

And  gracefully  sweep  the  river's  flow, 

And  the  hill-slopes  are  speckled  with  grazing  flocks, 

And  the  buzzard  hovers  above  the  rocks, 

And  the  rock-plants  cling  and  the  mosses  creep 

O'er  the  storm-scarred  ledges  of  Lover's  Leap. 


THE  CHAMBERS  OF  IMAGERY 
(Ezekiel  8:12.) 

In  the  chambers  of  imagery  the  aged  prophet  stood, 
And  gazed  upon  the  things  unseen  save  by  the  eye  of  God. 
From  vision  unto  vision  by  the  guiding  Spirit  led 
He  had  looked  on  living  beings  that  to  all  the  world  were  dead ; 
He  had  listened  to  their  voices,  he  had  heard  the  gathering  sound 
Of  their  wings,  whose  mighty  rushing  filled  the  heavenly  courts 
around. 

And  the  voice  of  God  had  spoken  hidden  secrets  to  his  ear, 
While  the  heavens  ablaze  with  jewels  filled  his  soul  with  joy 

and  fear. 
Then  from  out  the  amber  brightness  the  old  prophet's  soul  was 

swept 
To  the  dark  and  hidden  chambers  where  the  thoughts  of  men 

are  kept. 

In  the  chambers  of  imagery  the  aged  prophet  gropes — 

Where  are  all  his  jeweled  visions?  Where  are  now  his  rainbow 

hopes  ? 

Standing  in  the  dark  and  dampness  of  those  light-forsaken  halls, 
See  him  scan  the  forms  ignoble  pictured  on  the  silent  walls; 
Forms  of  low  and  creeping  reptiles  that  are  hiding  from  the 

light- 
Forms  of  beasts  that  crouch  in  cruel  expectation  of  the  night; 
While  without,  the  stars  are  gemming  regal  nature's  azure  crown. 

Here  are  forms  of  soulless  idols,  where  the  souls  of  men  bow 

down, 
And  the  prophet  hears,  while  standing  in  the  dark  more  dense 

than  night, 
Voices  whispering,  "These  are  hidden  from  the  Lord  of  life  and 

light." 


[128] 


In  the  chambers  of  imagery,  oh,  the  low  and  crawling  things! 
Here  no  ray  of  light  can  enter,  here  is  heard  no  noise  of  wings; 
Thoughts  that  hide  like  loathsome  reptiles  from  the  glory  of  the 

sun — 

Unchained,  beastly,  cruel  passions,  living,  breathing,  every  one; 
And  the  things  man  stoops  to  worship,  while  his  Maker  is  forgot, 
Saying,  "The  Lord  hath  forsaken  all  the  earth;  he  seeth  not." 
Fallen,  lost,  deluded,  ruined,  glorying  in  the  dark  and  dearth, 
Thinkest  thou  thy  thoughts  are  hidden  from  the  Lord  of  all  the 

earth? 

Open  the  chambers  of  imagery,  each  window  toward  the  east; 
Cast  out  the  cruel  reptile,  drive  forth  the  cruel  beast, 
Strike  down  the  molten  idol,  hiding  no  sin  from  view; 
Cry  to  the  holy  Artist,  "Come  and  make  all  things  new." 
Then  touched  by  the  heavenly  Master,  the  picture  shall  grow 

more  fair — 

The  trees  of  the  Lord's  own  planting,  the  birds  of  His  upper  air — 
The  stars  that  sing  His  praises  on  the  darkest  night  shall  shine 
And  the  wall  shall  be  all  glorious,  touched  by  His  hand  divine. 
Then  in  all  the  beautiful  pictures,  no  ravenous  beast  shall  be, 
And  the  glory  of  God  shall  lighten  "the  chambers  of  imagery." 


[129] 


CALIFORNIA  POPPIES 

Somewhere  in  childhood's  golden  fields 
Gay  poppies  with  the  sunbeams  blend, 
Maturer  fancy  scarce  reveals 

As  wandering  through  their  acre  beds, 

The  sunbeams  shining  on  their  heads, 

I  glean  my  golden  sheaf. 
No  Ruth  a  richer  sheaf  could  glean, 
Nor  Ceres,  though  the  harvest's  queen, 

I  pass  their  trophies  by; 
And  fill  my  hands  with  dazzling  showers 
Of  silken  petaled  trembling  flowers 

And  think  they  reasoned  well 
Who  for  our  State's  bright  emblem  chose 
The  flower  that  scorns  no  dreary  spot 
But  brightens  like  a  sunny  thought 
Each  gray  fence  corner  where  it  grows, 
And  mingling  with  the  sunshine  fills 
Bright  valleys  nestling  in  their  hills, 

Or  stars  the  ocean's  shore; 
And  to  our  proud  State's  farthest  bound 
The  little  wanderers  are  found 

Like  glints  of  golden  ore, 
Set  in  their  native  ground. 
Artists  perpetuate  its  flaming  hues, 
Writers  immortalize  it  in  your  muse, 
To  thee,  oh  golden  State,  it  shall  belong 
The  chosen  favorite  of  thy  scene  and  song! 


THE  BROKEN  WING 

He  was  bound  in  a  sheaf  of  golden  wheat, 
The  baby  lark,  and  a  broken  wing 
Hung  limp  at  his  side,  and  in  pitying  grief 
I  clasped  to  my  bosom  the  fluttering  thing 
The  baby  lark,  with  the  broken  wing. 

Now  garnered  in,  is  the  golden  wheat, 
And  lost  in  the  stubble  the  little  nest 
Where  my  bird  first  opened  his  baby  beak, 
While  the  sunshine  painted  his  yellow  breast, 
And  I  sit,  and  listen  to  hear  him  sing; 
The  meadow  lark,  with  the  broken  wing. 

A  few  blithe  notes,  so  clear,  so  high, 

They  were  born  for  the  meadow,  the  field,  the  ?ky; 

They  are  full  of  the  joy  of  ecstatic  wings 

And  I  listen,  listen,  for  sadder  things ; 

But  not  a  cadence  I  hear  of  grief, 

No  minor  strain  of  that  cruel  sheaf. 

Ah !  thus  will  I  tune  my  life,  my  lark, 
Forgetting  that  some  days  are  cold  and  dark, 
Forgetting  my  heart's  more  cruel  grief 
Than  thy  broken  wing,  or  thy  snaring  sheaf ; 
I  will  turn  to  the  shadow  my  broken  wing, 
I  will  sit  in  the  sunlight  and  sing  and  sing. 


[131] 


BANJO  JIM 

Old  Banjo  Jim  is  the  name  of  him 

Of  whom  I  have  to  write, 
As  he  walks  with  his  load,  'long  a  country  road, 

He  is  almost  always  tight; 

But  wherever  he  goes,  with  his  weal  and  woes 

His  banjo  always  shares, 
'Tis  as  much  a  scrap  of  the  poor  old  chap 

As  the  battered  hat  he  wears. 

He  is  old  and  scarred,  he  is  maimed  and  marred 

And  his  banjo  is  the  same, 
'Tis  a  part  of  himself  never  laid  on  the  shelf 

And  a  part  of  his  poor  old  name. 

He  will  curse  and  swear,  'till  the  very  air 

With  his  wicked  words  is  blue, 
Or  sit  on  a  pile  of  rails,  with  a  smile, 

And  play  a  tune  for  you. 

He  is  always  tight,  but  don't  take  a  fright 

He's  harmless,  the  neighbors  say, 
And  when  he  swears,  'tis  a  part  of  his  airs 

As  much  as  it  is  to  play ; 

Still  I  pity  him,  poor  Old  Banjo  Jim, 

Whenever  I  see  him  go 
With  his  rags  and  sin,  with  his  tags  and  gin, 

Holding  tight  to  his  old  banjo. 

Of  all  beauty  bereft,  there  must  yet  be  left 

In  his  hard  old  soul  a  string 
That  is  plastic  still,  to  feel  and  thrill 

At  the  sound  of  a  lovely  thing. 


But  who  comes  here  with  a  look  of  fear 

And  a  message  of  alarm? 
A  man  found  dead  by  the  road  'tis  said 

With  a  banjo  under  his  arm. 

"Got  drunk,"  they  say,  and  lost  his  way 

And  stumbled  into  the  ditch, 
Who  sold  him  the  stuff,  that  was  poison  enough, 

Was  it  murder  or  accident?  Which? 

And  does  no  one  care,  that  he's  lying  there 

With  a  look  so  fixed  and  wild? 
O  friends,  do  you  know,  that  years  ago 

He  was  somebody's  little  child! 

Then  lay  him  low,  where  we  all  shall  go 

Beggar  and  king,  as  well, 
With  his  banjo  pressed  to  his  lifeless  breast 

As  together  they  fought  and  fell. 

From  my  window  pane,  I  can  hear  the  rain 

On  an  old  tin  roof  below, 
And  I  lean  to  hear,  for  it  sounds  so  queer, 

Like  the  ghost  of  that  old  banjo. 

And  I  wonder  then,  what  he  might  have  been 

If  some  things  were  not,  that  are; 
Ah!  guilty  saloon,  'neath  the  silent  moon 

There  are  crimes  you  shall  answer  for! 


RESURRECTION 

I  took  a  tiny  pansy  seed 

And  laid  it  in  the  mold 
Then  waited  patiently  to  see 

The  first  green  leaves  unfold. 
Time  passed  and  from  the  silent  sod 

There  came  no  living  sound 
But  soon  the  little  embryo 

Appeared  abov^.  the  ground, 
It  grew  in  pride  and  beauty 

Kissed  by  sunbeams,  washed  by  showers, 
'Till  Summer  came  and  robed  it 

In  a  wealth  of  snowy  flowers ; 
And  now,  as  if  in  thankfulness 

For  life  and  beauty  given, 
My  pure,  sweet,  waxen  pansies  lift 

Their  purple  eyes  to  heaven. 

I  took  the  silent  chrysalis 

So  motionless  and  still 
And  laid  it  very  carefully 

Upon  my  window-sill 
Where  brightly  shone  from  out  the  east 

The  first  beams  of  the  sun, 
And  in  those  narrow  prison  walls 

A  wondrous  change  begun, 
One  morn  a  brilliant  butterfly 

Flew  gaily  'round  my  room, 
Burst  were  the  bonds  that  bound  it, 

Deserted  was  its  tomb, 
With  beauty,  grace  and  loveliness 

It  cheered  the  Summer  hours 
And  fed  upon  the  nectar 

Stored  in  the  fragrant  flowers. 


134 


I  stood  beside  a  casket 

The  gem  had  soared  away 
To  join  in  Heaven's  diadem 

A  glittering  galaxy, 
But  lingering  o'er  the  casket 

I  thought  of  days  now  fled 
And  of  one  who  bore  no  likeness 

To  the  changed  and  faded  dead, 
And  I  seemed  to  see  the  merriment 

That  sparkled  in  her  eye 
And  to  hear  again  the  merry  laugh 

I  heard  in  days  gone  by, 
And  I  thought  how  soon  the  casket 

Hid  in  the  earth's  embrace 
Would  fade  away,  nor  leave  behind 

In  memory's  hall  a  trace; 
And  as  a  last  long  tribute 

That  friendship's  hand  could  pay 
Ere  to  the  lonely  tomb  they  bore 

The  cold  and  icy  clay, 
I  plucked  my  fragile  pansies 

To  lay  upon  her  bier 
And  bade  them  carry  with  them 

The  language  of  a  tear. 
Emblems  of  angel  purity 

Could  angels  be  more  fair? 
And  as  their  sweet-breathed  incense 

Was  flung  upon  the  air 
Faith  whispered:    "Though  not  on  the  earth 

Yet  in  a  heavenly  fane, 
The  resurrected  casket 

Shall  hold  the  gem  again." 


[135] 


O  little  seed  interred  in  earth 

Thy  wondrous  change  is  wrought ! 
O  butterfly,  the  chrysalis 

Was  once  thy  burial  spot! 
Both  from  a  dark  and  gloomy  grave 

To  life  and  beauty  born 
O  moldering  clay,  thou  too  shalt  have 

A  resurrection  morn ! 

And  lovelier  shall  the  seraph  be 

Than  butterfly  or  flower, 
And  holier  shall  the  voices  be 

That  bless  that  waking  hour; 
For  though  the  butterfly  and  flower 

May  sink  'neath  Winter's  frost 
And  though  their  bright  symbolic  forms 

May  be  forever  lost 
Yet  when  the  soul  shall  gather  up 

The  ashes  of  her  clay 
Man  shall  through  endless  years  defy 

The  empire  of  decay. 


FROM  MY  WINDOW 

I  see  the  Asylum's  towers 
Loom  up  'gainst  purpling  hills  behind, 
Long  sweeps,  the  shaded  brown  and  green 
Of  field  and  meadow,  lie  between 
Broidered  with  sprays  of  orchard  flowers. 

I  hear  the  maniac's  awful  shriek, 
The  anguish  of  the  tortured  mind ; 
A  linnet  from  a  cherry  bough 
Is  pouring  forth  such  gladness  now 
As  none  would  try  to  speak. 

I  feel  the  solemn,  awful  fact 
Of  pain  and  sin  to  earth  assigned, 
Mercy  in  sunshine,  bird  and  bloom 
Covers  with  wings  the  darkest  tomb ; 
Yet  earth  hath  something  lacked. 

I  know  there  is  a  better  land 
Else  would  we  not  forever  find 
Misery  intruding  on  our  bliss 
And  blighting  what  we  love  in  this 
With  such  a  ruthless  hand? 

I  see,  I  hear,  I  feel,  I  know 

Life  is  a  cloud,  all  glory  lined ; 

Why  fear  to  rise  above  the  gloom 

Above  the  blasts  that  blight  earth's  bloom 

And  spoil  its  promise  so? 


[137] 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  WRECK 

Clear  and  bright  was  the  liquid  depth 
Where  a  beautiful  Brazilian  barque 
In  the  bosom  of  grim  old  ocean  slept 
With  the  shades  beneath,  it  green  and  dark. 

Two  divers  stood  on  the  ruined  deck 
While  the  tropic  sunbeams  overhead 
O'er  the  princely  form  of  the  silent  wreck 
Their  tints  of  dazzling  beauty  shed. 

Half  embedded,  in  yellow  sand 
And  broken  coral,  the  vessel  lay; 
While  a  halo  of  rainbow  color  spanned 
The  broken  toy  of  the  breaker's  play. 

The  divers  halted  a  moment  there 
To  gaze  on  the  strange  and  lovely  scene, 
Before  them — the  vessel  weirdly  fair, 
Around  them — the  water's  crystal  sheen. 

Never  in  all  their  strange  career 
Had  they  made  their  dangerous  deep  descent 
To  a  sea  so  beautiful,  bright  and  clear, 
Where  the  vessel  lay  all  torn  and  spent. 

As  they  stood  entranced,  a  comrade  approached 
And  beckoning,  led  the  way  before 
Where  the  clear  bright  waters  on  all  encroached, 
'Till  they  halted  before  a  cabin  door; 


[138] 


Slightly  ajar  it  stood,  at  their  touch 
Swinging  back,  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
A  sight  that  held  each  enchanted,  such 
Was  the  heavenly  vision  that  there  reposed. 

The  heavy  mahogany  furniture  stood 
Each  piece  in  its  own  appointed  place, 
Unmoved  by  the  strong  intruding  flood 
That  pressed  its  way  into  every  place ; 

In  the  upper  berth  of  the  cabin  lay 
A  fair  young  lady,  as  if  she  slept, 
From  her  brow  the  dark  hair  swept  away 
Like  seaweed  strands,  in  the  glistening  depth. 

'Round  her  a  gaily  hued  wrap  was  flung 
Heavily,  carelessly,  as  in  mirth, 
And  one  little  jeweled  hand  was  hung 
Over  the  side  of  the  upper  berth. 

Over  her  beautiful  oval  face, 
Perfect  in  womanhood's  early  dawn, 
And  the  dark  brow's  peaceful,  pensive  grace 
Was  left  no  sign  that  life  was  gone. 

Dreamily  the  closed  lids  reposed 
Their  silken  fringe  on  the  rounded  cheek, 
Scarce  had  one  started,  had  they  unclosed 
And  the  child-like  lips  have  moved  to  speak; 

And  the  crimson  curtain  drawn  aside 
The  rings  of  its  silver  rod  below, 


[139] 


(As  if  the  fair  vision  loath  to  hide) 
Cast  into  the  berth  its  roseate  glow. 

Over  two  months  had  she  slumbered  there, 
By  that  sea- water  clear  and  cold  embalmed; 
Yet  it  seemed  that  the  soul  of  that  temple  fair 
Was  only  that  morn  by  death's  angel  calmed. 

The  divers  gazed  on  the  scene  impressed 
With  its  solemn  beauty,  then  went  their  way — 
Softly,  as  not  to  disturb  her  rest, 
For  death  seemed  robbed  of  half  his  prey. 

They  were  rude,  unscrupulous,  fearless  men 
These  daring  wrestlers  who  challenge  the  deep, 
In  ghastly  scenes  had  they  often  been 
Where  silent  sentinels  vigil  keep. 

They  plundered  the  beautiful  barque  (nor  spake) 
Embedded  in  coral  and  yellow  sand, 
But  not  one  among  them  approached  to  take 
The  sparkling  rings  from  the  little  hand. 

In  a  few  short  weeks  her  lover  sought 
The  deep  sea-grave  of  his  promised  bride, 
Their  anchor  they  cast  at  the  self-same  spot 
In  the  diver's  armor  he  braved  the  tide — 

Through  the  crystal  waters  he  saw  the  wreck 
Lit  up  with  its  dazzling  tints  as  before, 
He  passed  o'er  the  ruined  sand-strewn  deck 
And  followed  the  guide  to  the  cabin  door ; 


[140] 


And  there  on  her  peaceful  couch  beheld 
His  promised  bride  in  her  watery  tomb, 
Ah !  who  can  guess  what  emotion  swelled 
His  heart,  as  he  stood  in  that  sea-lit  room? 

And  they  left  her  there,  it  were  better  so, 
Sweetly  to  sleep  in  that  upper  berth, 
In  the  crimson  curtain's  roseate  glow, 
Too  fair  for  the  dread  decay  of  earth. 

With  her  long  dark  hair  on  the  wave  afloat 
Like  seaweed  strands  on  the  waters  flung, 
Or  clinging  close  to  her  fair  white  throat, 
And  one  little  hand  o'er  her  high  couch  hung. 

Then  close  the  door  gently,  disturb  her  not, 
And  softly  pass  o'er  the  ruined  deck; 
No  evil  profanes  the  enchanted  spot 
Where  sleepeth  the  lady  of  the  wreck. 


NATURE. 

Nature  is  wonderful,  the  light  that  plays 

In  every  pleasing  shape  that  eye  could  wish, 

Painting  the  sunrise  with  Aurora's  blush 

And  evening  with  the  sunset's  burning  flames, 

Flooding  the  zenith  as  with  burnished  gold 

And  e'en  the  gloaming  with  enchanting  shades 

That  though  less  brilliant  yet  within  themselves 

Possess  distinct  and  fascinating  charms, 

Is  wonderful  if  we  but  paused  to  think 

What  our  bright  world  would  be,  deprived  of  light, 

Even  the  night  would  miss  the  twinkling  lamps 

And  mellow  moonbeams;   while  the  day 

Would  lose  her  all,  for  light  is  day;   and  darkness 

Would  usurp  her  throne,  hanging  a  sable  curtain  where  before 

The  golden  beams  lost  their  identity  in  one  unbroken  flood,  that 

swept  adown 

Aerial  channels  and  through  rifted  clouds, 
Harmoniously  blending  earth  and  heaven. 
Take  only  light, — one  blessing  of  our  earth — 
Leaving  all  else,  flowers,  birds  and  trees,  beautiful  landscapes, 

homes  of  loveliness, 

Glittering  gems  and  piles  of  hoarded  wealth; 
What  were  all  these  without  a  ray  of  light? 
An  idle  mockery,  through  starless  night  blinded  and  groping,  to 

exist  were  death, 

Roaming  through  flowery  meadows,  by  cool  brooks 
Stumbling  o'er  paths  that  light  would  make  sublime, 
Losing  one's  way  within  a  hopeless  maze, 
Thirsting  with  plenteous  streams  on  either  hand, 
Dying  of  hunger  in  green  fields  of  corn, 
Take  light,  and  day  is  night  and  life  is  death 
Comfort  and  happiness  and  friends  are  lost 
In  the  dark  labyrinth  of  starless  night. 


The  humblest  weed  in  some  dark  crevice  hid 
Holds  in  its  narrow  limits  the  same  forces 
That  control  the  mighty  tree  and  bid  it  add 
Year  after  year  the  leaf,  the  twig,  the  branch, 
'Till  'neath  its  friendly  shade,  beasts  of  the  field  find 
Shelter  from  Summer's  scorching  rays 
And  the  tired  traveler  reclines  to  rest. 

It  stands  a  living  tree  in  miniature 

Lifting  its  tiny  branches  toward  the  heavens, 

Spreading  its  leaflets  to  the  morning  sun 

Rearing  its  buds   and  blossoms,   fruit  and   seeds,   to   live  and 

flourish  when  it  has  decayed. 
We  pass  them  by  or  tread  them  'neath  our  feet, 
Yet  Nature  with  her  wealth  of  birds  and  flowers, 
Has  in  her  heart  a  place  for  every  weed ; 
For  her  quick  eyes  require  no  microscope 
To  note  the  varied  wonders  and  delights 
That  the  Creator's  humblest  works  possess. 


DREAM  OF  THE  SUMMER  LAND 

I  dream  of  a  land  where  no  thunder-cloud  gathers, 
Where  across  the  calm  waters  no  tempest  may  sweep 
And  where,  while  we  chill  in  our  bleak  wintry  weather, 
The  vales  in  perpetual  Summer-time  sleep. 

I  dream  of  a  city  across  whose  bright  portals 
The  sunbeams  are  rolling  in  waves  of  delight, 
Where  brightness  and  gladness  and  joy  are  immortal, 
Where  there  is  no  darkness,  no  winter,  no  night. 


[143] 


I  dream  of  a  meadow  where  lilies  are  growing 
And  fairer  than  Solomon's  glory  arrayed, 
I  dream  of  a  garden  where  roses  are  glowing 
And  never  a  rose  or  a  lily  shall  fade. 

I  dream  of  a  clime  where  the  palm  tree  is  waving 
O'er  rivers  of  crystal  and  pavements  of  gold, 
And  seraphs  amid  the  bright  waters  are  laving, — 
A  realm  more  serene  than  the  Eden  of  old. 

I  dream  of  a  song  that  is  ever  ascending 
O,  oft  of  that  anthem  of  joy  have  I  dreamed ! 
To  Him  who  hath  loved  us  be  praises  unending 
To  Him  who  from  sin  unto  God  hath  redeemed. 

0  Summer,  bright  Summer!  my  thoughts  still  are  roaming 
Through  thy  beautiful  day  that  so  lately  was  mine 

And  now  in  the  gathering  shades  of  thy  gloaming 

1  dream  of  a  Summer  that  knows  no  decline. 

'Till  yonder  rude  tempest  of  desolate  seeming 
Is  melting  before  the  more  real  unseen 
And  only  the  mystery  wrought  with  my  dreaming 
Like  a  thin  veil  of  gossamer  lieth  between. 


[144] 


THE  YEARS 

Stay,  stay,  sweet  Years,  bright  circling  golden  Years 

With  your  glad  Summers  full  of  sunbeam  smiles 

And  sobbing  Winters  wet  with  raindrop  tears, 

Your  pensive  Autumns  and  the  witching  wiles 

Of  Spring-time  days,  showers,  sunbeams,  hopes  and  fears 

Weave  your  fair  coronets,  ye  fleeting  Years ! 

Ah,  is  it  true  that  ye  will  come  between, 
Like  a  vast,  heedless,  hurrying  multitude, 
Between  us  and  the  faces  that  we  love, 
Crowding  us  farther,  farther,  still  apart, 
Hiding  them  from  us  by  a  darkening  screen? 
O  Years,  bright  golden  Years,  must  ye  intrude 
At  last  in  endless  bitterness  to  prove 
A  mighty  barrier,  'twixt  heart  and  heart? 

Stay,  hurrying  Years,  why  speed  away  so  fast? 

Rest  your  bright  wings,  for  we  are  happy  now, 

Ye  mock  us,  for  ye  say,  "It  cannot  last." 

Are  Youth's  fresh  hopes  but  idle,  feverish  dreams 

That  like  bright  bubbles  only  soar  to  break? 

Leave  us  the  present,  all  too  fair  it  seems — 

If  dreams  are  happiness  why  should  we  wake? 

Already  are  your  dazzling  rainbow  hues 
Changing  to  pallid  spectres  grim  and  gaunt. 
Bright  Years,  will  ye  your  bloom  and  beauty  lose 
And  like  pale  ghostly  forms  life's  pathway  haunt? 
Will  ye  plow  furrows,  hard,  unlovely  lines 
Where  ruby  roses  blush  and  mingle  now 
With  pearly  lilies,  fragile  tenderness, 
On  lips  and  cheek  and  brow? 
Will  ye  crush  out  with  careless,  ruthless  tread 


145] 


The  tender  embryoes  that  spring  to  life 

In  countless  crevices  of  heart  and  soul, 

That  Love  hath  nurtured  and  that  Hope  hath  fed 

That  where  weeds  grew  there  might  be  flowers  instead? 

Will  ye  break  in  like  thieves  in  rayless  night 

And  steal  the  diamonds  one  by  one  away 

That  flashed  from  Love's  bright  ring  their  varying  light 

'Till  all  are  gone  whom  we  had  hoped  might  stay? 

Ah !  will  ye  prey  upon  life's  youthful  tree 

'Till  flower  and  fruit  and  leaf  are  in  decay 

'Till  the  life  fluid  surging  in  its  heart 

With  such  fresh,  ardent  living  energy 

Is  quenched,  its  channels  parched,  its  fountain  dry 

'Till  all  it  was  or  promised  still  to  be 

With  branches  reaching  even  to  the  sky 

Down  in  the  fossil  depths  of  earth  is  thrown 

To  petrify  and  harden  into  stone? 

O  beauteous  Years,  if  only  these  ye  leave 

Take,  take  the  gentle  sentiments  that  grieve, 

Let  not  the  blows  that  all  have  overthrown 

Leave  one  faint  wound  upon  the  heart's  cold  stone! 

But  no,  bright  Years,  Faith,  Mercy,  Hope  declare 
False  are  the  prophecies  of  veiled  Despair 
Who  whispers:  "Oh,  the  Years  are  flying  fast 
Ye  now  are  happy  but  it  cannot  last ;" 
They  sing,  with  folded  wings  above  the  heart, 
"Faith,  Mercy,  Love  and  Hope  will  not  depart 
The  Years  can  have  no  power  to  make  thee  old 
The  warm  deep  springs  of  Love  shall  not  grow  cold; 
Mercy  shall  drop  her  dew  in  blessing  down, 
True  Happiness  braid  still  her  blossom  crown 


Hope's  fadeless  star  outshines  Heaven's  brightest  spheres 
And  Faith,  the  angel  of  the  tide  of  years, 
Points  out  beyond  Time's  fog  and  mystery 
The  boundless  ocean  of  eternity." 

Surge  on  bright  Years,  ye  are  but  waves  that  tend 
To  bear  us  nearer  to  our  journey's  end; 
When  we  look  back  our  life's  appointed  way 
Will  we  regret  that  ye  refused  to  stay? 
All  that  ye  bear  away  we  yet  shall  find, — 
The  jewels  to  thy  murky  depths  consigned, 
The  blossoms  tossed  so  swiftly  from  our  sight, 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  good  and  bright 
Are  borne  before  us  through  Time's  dark  defiles 
To  wait  our  coming  'midst  the  fadeless  isles. 


147] 


SONG  OF  THE  EASTER  LILIES 

The  Lilies  of  Easter  awake  and  sing, 

They  rise  from  the  dust  where  in  sleep  they  dwell 

Through  the  long  drear  winter  of  death  and  night 

And  out  of  the  dark  earth  cold  and  white 

Rise  pure  and  white  as  an  angel's  wing 

And  the  old,  sweet  story  of  Easter  tell. 

Tender  and  sweet  is  the  song  they  chant, 

The  Lilies'  message  of  hope  and  trust, 

To  every  immortal  inhabitant 

Of  the  world  whose  inhabitants  dwell  in  dust. 

From  cycle  to  cycle,  from  age  to  age 
Through  war,  through  pestilence,  sin  and  wrong, 
From  the  song,  the  anthem,  the  pictured  page 
The  Easter  lilies  have  blossomed  on. 

Awake  and  sing,  ye  that  dwell  in  the  dust, 
Sweet  anthem  of  prophecy,  hope  and  trust, 
It  trembles  and  vibrates  from  tomb  to  tomb 
And  the  Easter  Lilies  awake  and  bloom. 

Open  the  heart's  close-bolted  door 

And  let  the  song  of  the  Lilies  in, 

Song  of  prophecy,  angel's  song, 

Waking  Life's  beauty  from  old  Earth's  wrong. 

Treasures  corrupted  by  moth  and  rust, 
Lives  down-trodden  by  sin  and  wrong, 
Rise  and  join  in  the  Easter  song, 
Awake  and  sing,  ye  that  dwell  in  dust ! 


Awake  and  sing,  for  the  Christ  who  said 

"Consider  the  Lilies,"  speaks  to-day  (not  a  buried  Christ  but  a 

risen  King) 

And  grand  shall  the  final  anthem  swell 
When  all  who  in  dust  and  darkness  dwell,  like  the  Lilies  of  Easter 

awake  and  sing. 


THE  BIRD'S  SONG. 

The  corn  is  waving  its  silken  floss 
In  the  breeze  that  frolics  the  field  across 
And  the  berries  gleam  with  a  richer  hue 
And  the  grasses  bend  'neath  the  morning  due. 
And  the  Summer-Bride  of  the  golden  Sun, 
Her  reign  of  beauty  has  just  begun, 
Sweet  roses  strew  the  paths  she  treads 
And  millions  of  blossoms  nod  their  heads 
And  load  the  air  with  their  sweet  perfume 
And  earth  is  aglow  with  fruit  and  bloom; 
But  best  of  all  in  yon  leafy  grove 
Are  some  little  birds  that  I  dearly  love, 
They  have  opened  their  eyes  to  the  sun-bright  air 
And  tasted  the  berries  rich  and  rare. 
Oh!  of  all  the  joys,  I  think  the  best, 
Are  the  little  birds  in  their  cozy  nest! 

On  a  flowery  twig  I  perch  and  sing : 
"Welcome,  sweet  Summer,  good-bye,  sweet  Spring," 
And  I  look  on  the  heavens  so  high  and  bright, 
And  I  look  on  the  meadows  aglow  with  light 
And  plume  my  wings  for  the  skies'  bright  towers 
Then  pause  to  linger  among  the  flowers, 
Oh,  the  earth  is  so  fair  I  am  happy  to  stay 
But  the  heavens  are  so  bright  I  must  fly  away ! 

[149] 


TWO  CHRISTMAS  PICTURES 

Holly-berries  on  the  hills, 

Bright  above  the  rocks  and  rills, 

Mistletoe  in  tree-tops  high, 

Throned  against  the  wintry  sky. 

Unattended  flocks  that  stray 

O'er  the  hill-slopes  far  away. 

In  the  East,  bright  stars  that  shine 

With  a  radiance  half  divine ; 

Christmas  carols  on  the  air 

Gladly  sounding,  everywhere, 

Chimes  from  many  a  bell-tower  tall 

Falling  sweetly  over  all ; 

Fair  the  scene,  but  dim  and  cold, 

When  we  look  on  that  of  old, 

Bethlehem  of  prophecy, 

Looking  out  toward  the  sea, 

Lying  midst  her  hills  of  green 

Glistening  in  her  starlight  sheen; 

While  the  shepherds  guard  their  flocks 

Resting  by  the  silent  rocks ; 

And  the  wise  men,  from  afar 

Watch  their  glorious,  guiding  star. 

Hush !  the  air  with  music  swells 

Sweeter  than  the  chime  of  bells, 

Look !  a  heavenly  choir  attends 

Glory's  light  from  heaven  descends ; 

Sweetly  o'er  those  vine-wreathed  knolls, 

That  majestic  chorus  rolls, 

'Till  the  shepherds  catch  the  strain : 

"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 


150] 


No  bright  angels  throng  these  skies 
Making  earth  a  paradise, 
But  the  glorious  song  they  sung 
Trembles  now  on  every  tongue ; 
Infant  voices  now  proclaim : 
"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 
So  we  gaze  on  each  bright  scene 
Where  long  ages  roll  between 
That,  more  glorious  bright 
This,  in  a  serener  light ; 
But  the  reign  of  peace  begun 
Evermore  its  race  shall  run ; 
Now  we  see  its  silvery  tide 
Down  the  rolling  ages  glide; 
And  each  Christmas,  sing  again: 
"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 


[151] 


THE  HERMIT 

Oh,  to  abide  in  some  sylvan  shade 

Removed  from  life's  competition, 

Exempt  from  her  hollow  and  mean  parade 

And  her  false  and  fickle  ambition; 

Where  the  tongue  of  flattery  shall  be  dumb 

With  her  smiling  goblet,  brimming ; 

Where  the  witch  of  slander  may  never  come, 

Her  honeyed  poison  bringing; 

Where  deceit  and  rumor  of  war  and  strife 

Shall  trouble  no  more  forever; 

Where  peace  shall  be  the  ambrosia  of  life 

And  duty  her  one  endeavor. 

Oh,  for  the  hermit's  breezeless  calm, 

When  the  world  with  guilt  is  groaning; 

Tranquil  and  sweet  is  his  isle  of  balm, 

Untouched  by  the  storm's  wild  moaning. 

Crushed  lie  the  blossoms  of  innocence 

The  spoil  of  the  siren's  story; 

Blighted  the  tender  buds  of  trust 

By  the  frost-king  old  and  hoary. 

The  tyrant  stalks  in  his  dauntless  pride, 

The  plea  of  the  helpless  scorning ; 

But  oh,  in  some  cloistered  spot  to  abide 

Set  only  with  Truth's  adorning; 

Embalmed  with  the  scent  of  clover-fields 

And  lulled  by  the  pines'  low  sighing, 

Where  nature  her  lavish  fruitage  yields 

Nor  whispers  that  Time  is  dying. 

Society,  charmed  is  thy  friendly  face 

'Till  revealed  is  thy  hidden  slander. 

Solitude,  thine  is  a  three-fold  grace, 

Where  falsehood  is  lost  in  candor. 

When  the  bow  of  promise,  embossed  with  gold 

Is  dipped  in  our  cup  of  pleasure, 

We  wonder  that  famous  bards  of  old 


Could  count  thee  a  priceless  treasure ; 
But  we  sigh  for  the  hermit's  breezeless  calm 
When  the  rainbow  fades  in  the  gloaming, 
Tranquil  and  sweet  is  his  isle  of  balm 
When  the  angry  sea  is  foaming. 


OUR  BETTER  SELVES 

Face  to  face  in  the  light  with  our  better  selves 

Sometimes  for  a  moment  the  mind  that  delves 

In  the  problems  written  below  -and  on  high, 

In  the  flowers  of  earth  and  the  clouds  of  the  sky, 

The  enigmas  penciled  on  star  and  stone — 

Stands  face  to  face  in  the  light  with  its  own — 

And  looks  as  the  stone  to  the  shining  star, 

To  what  we  might  be  from  what  we  are. 

And  we  try  to  dash  off  memory's  shelves 

Some  volume  from  sight  of  our  better  selves. 

'Tis  then  we  long  for  a  nobler  part; 

For  a  broader  mind  and  a  larger  heart ; 

For  that  better  self — how  it  speaks  and  shames 

Our  small  deceits  and  our  petty  aims, 

Till  we  sigh  to  be  noble,  and  good,  and  true, 

And  do  what  our  better  selves  tell  us  to  do. 

Turn  back  from  the  zigzag  path  we  have  trod 

To  a  highway  broad  as  the  love  of  God. 

We  shall  stand  some  time  face  to  face  with  the  past 
When  the  die  of  our  lives  is  forever  cast ; 
For  the  soul — the  soul — it  can  never  forget — 
Will  it  shudder  and  sicken  in  vain  regret, 
And  sigh  to  return  to  the  sphere  of  men— 
To  be,  to  be,  what  it  might  have  been  ? 

[153] 


BIRD  SONGS 

The  birds  are  happy,  singing  all  day  through 

Their  little  psalms  of  praise, 
And  just  because  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
The  grasses  green,  the  trees  in  leafage  new; 
Awake  my  heart,  and  be  thou  happy  too, 

These  sunny  days. 

Sing,  as  the  birds  sing,  just  for  love 

Of  God  and  song; 

Make  for  His  temple  every  leafy  grove 
That  rears  its  frescoed  canopy  above. 
Thy  strength,  thy  freedom  and  thy  gladness  prove 

O'er  gloom  and  wrong. 

One  little  songster  taught  to  me  his  lay 

It  was  so  sweet, 

These  were  the  warbled  words  he  seemed  to  say: 
"Earth  is  so  joyous  that  I  long  to  stay, 
Heaven  is  so  glorious,  I  would  fly  away." 

Still  doth  his  song  repeat. 

Dreading  to  live,  yet  fearing  more  to  die, 

Take  thy  distress 

To  where  the  birds  through  field  and  forest  fly, 
Trilling  their  thankfulness  to  earth  and  sky, 
And  without  gold,  or  lands  or  honor,  buy 

Such  songs  as  this. 


[154] 


The  birds  are  singing,  not  for  gold  or  fame 

Their  songs  may  bring. 

O,  what  care  they  for  words  of  slight  or  blame, 
For  breathless  listeners,  or  honored  name ! 
To  empty  aisles  they  carol  just  the  same 

Because  they  love  to  sing. 

The  birds  are  happy,  'till  their  joy  o'erflows 

In  minstrelsy; 

No  wealth  for  them  in  glittering  treasure  glows. 
Awake,  my  heart,  and  know  what  nature  knows 
The  ecstasy  of  life  that  is  and  was 

And  evermore  shall  be. 


[155] 


A  DIVINE  CODICIL 
(Isaiah  43:5-9.) 

I  claim  that  though  my  calling  be 

A  mandate  high  of  holy  writ, 
There  is  a  law  that  speaks  to  me 

To  modify  and  govern  it, 
Turning  the  highways  of  my  plan 

To  byways  that  my  Saviour  trod ; 
Only  in  being  true  to  man 

Can  man  be  true  to  God. 

Then  tell  me  not,  thy  duty  lies 

In  paths  too  high  for  human  needs ; 
The  hungry  raven  when  it  cries, 

Its  tender  Heavenly  Father  feeds. 
God  calls  thee  from  thy  praise  and  prayer 

If  in  thy  house  one  life  there  be 
That  needs  thy  sympathy  and  care, 

Thy  service  or  thy  ministry. 

The  Pharisee  still  hears  his  "Woe!" 

Above  the  dead  applause  of  men ; 
Still  on  the  road  to  Jericho 

Kneels  crowned  the  poor  Samaritan 
And  not  the  infidel  alone 

"There  is  no  God"  in  boldness  saith; 
The  Christian  who  neglects  his  own 

Is  worse,  and  hath  denied  his  faith. 

For  truth's  sake  truth  is  blest,  and  yet, 
In  God's  account  no  credit's  given 

To  him  who  owes  the  world  a  debt 
And  pays  that  debt  to  heaven. 


[156] 


Where  is  thy  brother,  guilty  Cain  ? 

Against  whom  only  is  thy  fraud — 
Speak,  Ananias !  teach  again 

That  sin  to  man  is  sin  to  God. 

Meet  thy  high  calling  glad  and  strong ; 

Let  pain  nor  pleasure  stay  thy  flight ; 
Yet  through  one  little  human  wrong 

Thou  shalt  not  lead  the  hosts  of  right. 
While  rainbow  truths  dark  errors  span, 

While  burst  sweet  blossoms  from  the  sod, 
He  who  is  truest  unto  man 

Is  ever  truest  to  his  God. 


[157] 


THE  GRANDMAS 

Perhaps  I  were  a  sleeping, 

Perhaps  I  were  awake, 
And  maybe  I  was  neither 

So  what  difference  does  it  make? 
I  dreamed  of  a  merry  party 

As  jolly  as  could  be 
'Twas  all  the  dear,  dear  Grandmas 

Invited  out  to  tea. 
They  came  from  near  and  distance, 

All  the  Gradmas  I  had  met, 
The  dear,  quaint,  nice  old  ladies 

I  never  shall  forget, 
And  some  were  oh,  so  funny ! 

Such  stories  told  that  day, 
And    said    such    quaint,    wise,    solemn   things 

As  only  Grandmas  say. 
Some  told  what  kind  of  herb  teas 

Were  best  for  every  pain 
And  some  told  all  their  troubles 

In  such  a  minor  strain, 
And  then  they  fell  a  talking, 

The  Grandmas  one  and  all, 
Of  some  sweet,  lovely  boy  and  girl, 

I  can't  just  now  recall, 
But  one  thing  still  I  treasure 

Just  like  a  costly  gem 
It  was  a  little  boy  or  girl 

Who  had  been  kind  to  them. 
One  said  a  little  grandchild 

"With  softest  step"  (she  said) 
Had  brought  her  lovely  violets 

When  she  was  sick  abed. 


158 


And  one,  with  such  a  cheerful  smile, 

Said,  that  "a  little  dear" 
Wrote  her  the  sweetest  letters 

A  dozen  times  a  year. 
And  one  who  had  no  grandchild 

And  looked  so  sad  and  sweet 
Said  that  somebody's  grandchild 

Brought  her  nice  fruit  to  eat. 
And  one  who  looked  a  little  queer 

Spoke  up  then  just  as  quick 
And  told  how  that  some  darling  boy 

When  she  was  very  sick 
Brought  something  lovely  every  day 

Said,  "good  morning"  and  good-bye." 
He  said :  "You're  someone's  Grandma 

And  that's  the  reason  why;" 
Then  all  the  dear  old  Grandmas 

Put  on  their  things  to  go. 
I  could  not  help  a  thinking 

Of  some  I  used  to  know 
Who  didn't  come  to-day  because 

They  have  grown  young  again 
In  that  bright  land  of  Heaven 

Where  there  is  no  age  or  pain, 
And  I  thought  of  all  the  girls  and  boys 

And  wished  that  I  could  say: 
"Don't  forget  the  dear  old  Grandmas 

For  we'll  all  grow  old  some  day." 


[159] 


LOOKING  BEYOND 

Today  the  glorious  King  of  Day  is  smiling 
Upon  the  hills  and  fields  he  looks  upon, 
But  somehow  from  the  glory  of  the  sunshine 
There  is  a  something  gone. 

What  is  it?    The  soft  air  is  warm  and  pleasant 
The  shrubs  and  trees  fresh  robes  of  verdure  wear 
And  yet  a  feeling  not  exactly  sadness 
Pervades  the  air. 

Some  sweet  notes  from  the  ivory  keys  come  to  me, 
They  echo  through  my  being,  faint  and  low, 
But  why  it  is  they  lack  the  power  to  soothe  me 
I  do  not  know. 

'Tis  strange,  but  sometimes  how  life's  prospects  thrill  us, 
How  cherished  plans  gleam  with  a  new  delight; 
We  sleep  and  wake  to  find  Hope's  starry  splendor 
Has  taken  flight. 

Our  plans  are  dim,  their  glory  has  departed. 
And  yet  we  cannot  find  the  words  to  tell 
Of  the  strange  brightness,  or  the  shadowy  dimness, 
That  these  loved  dreams  befell. 

We  only  know  what  seemed  of  vast  importance, 
And,  filled  with  hope  our  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Has  dwindled  down  to-day  without  a  reason 
To  small  and  trifling  worth; 

Sometimes  these  seem  enough  to  make  us  happy, 
And  sure  success  in  these  is  all  we  claim; 
And  then  again  we  can  but  vaguely  murmur : 
"O  for  a  higher  aim !" 

[160] 


A  higher  aim,  an  object  that  is  lasting, 
A  height  we  cannot  reach, 
A  treasure  that  is  of  intrinsic  value, 
A  thought  too  deep  for  speech. 

Be  still,  oh  fluttering  Spirit,  ever  striving 
Like  some  imprisoned  bird  to  leave  its  cage, 
Yet  in  a  higher  flight  a  nobler  calling 
Thou  shalt  engage! 

When  the  great  sun  has  smiled  a  few  more  mornings 
Upon  these  transient  longings  and  desires, 
There  shall  be  kindled  in  thy  inmost  being 
Quenchless  celestial  fires. 

Be  still,  what  seemeth  little  may  seem  greater 
When  we  shall  view  with  clearer  vision  all, 
When  looking  back  upon  these  little  strivings 
They  may  not  seem  so  small ; 

And  yet  we  dread  to  leave  our  work  unfinished, 
We  cannot  give  our  petty  prospects  up 
And  should  we  have  to  leave  them  we  might  murmur 
At  this  our  bitter  cup. 

We  might  deem  all  our  usefulness  as  ended 
And  mourn  to  leave  our  greatest  work  undone, 
When  if  our  lives  have  been  what  we  should  make  them 
Our  work  is  just  begun. 

Had  we  but  faith  to  grasp  the  dim  hereafter 
With  strong  unwavering  hands, 
Methinks  we  could  give  up  without  a  murmur 
These  little  earthly  plans ; 


161 


But  do  we  give  them  up?   If  true  and  righteous, 
If  with  the  principles  of  love  instilled 
Methinks  in  that  great  limitless  hereafter 
They  yet  shall  be  fulfilled. 

When  the  dark  angel,  Death,  shall  bid  us  slumber 
I  do  not  think  these  living  souls  shall  sleep 
But  in  the  rapture  of  a  perfect  freedom 

The  thought  and  memory  of  the  present  keep. 

And  more  and  more  to  grow  in  life  and  vigor 
As  years  that  end  not,  roll  o'er  broader  fields, 
Defying  time  or  death  or  endless  ages 
To  stop  their  chariot  wheels. 

Beyond,  oh  word,  oh  promise  for  the  future ! 
Oh  star  of  this  dark  night ! 

Though  cherished  hopes  lose  all  their  power  to  charm  us, 
Beyond,  it  still  is  light. 

And  though  with  every  golden  clasp  forgotten, 
With  jewels  dropping  from  each  broken  bond, 
These  cherished  plans  sink  down  to  naught  before  us, 
We  still  can  look  beyond. 


[163] 


OLD  MODOC 

("UKIAH,  Cal.,  Aug.  20.— A  fire  occurred  at  the  Yokayo 
Indian  reservation  last  night  which  resulted  in  the  death  of  two 
Indians  and  the  practical  destruction  of  the  entire  village.  The 
rancheria  is  situated  about  six  miles  south  of  this  city,  and  at  the 
time  the  conflagration  started  the  major  portion  of  the  population 
was  at  work  in  the  various  hopfields  in  this  valley. 

An  old  and  infirm  Indian  was  confined  by  illness  in  one  of  the 
straw-thatched  huts,  and  in  some  manner  a  spark  from  a  slumber- 
ing fire  was  blown  to  the  roof  of  the  cabin.  In  almost  an  instant 
the  flimsy  structure  was  in  flames. 

It  chanced  at  this  time  that  a  Modoc  Indian  named  Will-Ti- 
Mo  had  returned  to  the  village  on  an  errand,  and  as  soon  as  he 
discovered  the  cabin  of  the  old  Indian  on  fire  he  rushed  to  the 
rescue.  The  intense  heat  drove  him  back  at  first,  but  he  no 
sooner  recovered  his  breath  than  he  rushed  through  the  door  and 
into  the  blazing  cabin.  He  seized  the  old  Indian  by  the  hair  and 
started  to  drag  him  out.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  door  his 
clothes  were  on  fire  and  he  fell  back  into  the  cabin.  A  moment 
later  the  roof  of  the  hut  fell  in  and  the  blazing  mass  covered  the 
two  Indians. 

The  flames  by  this  time  had  practically  destroyed  the  house 
and  help  came  in  time  to  remove  the  two  dying  men  from  the 
glowing  embers.  Will-Ti-Mo,  the  Modoc  brave,  was  burned 
almost  to  a  crisp,  but  he  was  still  living  when  taken  from  the 
glowing  building.  The  other  Indian  was  dead.  All  night  long 
the  death  song  of  the  Indians  could  be  heard.  The  hopfields 
were  deserted  and  Yokayos,  Sanels  and  a  few  Klamaths  gathered 
around  the  charred  bodies  to  mourn." — Ukiah  Press.) 

What  is  it  you  tell  me,  what  is  it  you  say, 
Old  Modoc  died  like  a  hero  to-day? 
Strange,  very  strange,  I  remember  him  well 
The  tall,  gaunt  old  Indian,  tricky  and  queer 


[163] 


Who  used  to  come  begging  so  often  here, 

Hiding  his  coat  in  some  wayside  nook 

He  sought  our  warm  kitchen  on  wintry  days 

Shivering,  coughing,  trying  to  look 

The  picture  of  virtuous  suffering  and  want, 

Stretching  his  wrinkled  old  hands  o'er  the  blaze 

Acting  the  story  he  wanted  to  tell 

Of  hardship,  exposure  and  starvation  gaunt, 

Old  Modoc  ?  yes,  I  remember  him  well. 

Sometimes  the  quaint  drama  would  take  a  new  form, — 

Old  Modoc  would  enter  unnoticed,  unheard, 

With  benevolent  smile  and  a  great  load  of  wood, 

He  would  labor  unhired  till  weary  and  tired 

Then  sit  down  and  eat  without  speaking  a  word ; 

But  this  quaint,  wordless  drama  was  varied  at  times 

By  strange,  wild  accountings  of  fire  and  of  flood, 

With  gesticulations  and  vehement  tones 

He  would  picture  the  throes  of  disaster  and  crimes, 

Old  Modoc,  a  wonderful  orator  stood, 

Stretched  to  his  full  height  or  bent  low  with  the  groans 

Of  brothers  who  perished  in  flood  or  in  flame, 

Or  pointing  away  to  the  Heaven  of  the  good 

Where  their  spirits  still  roamed 

While  the  earth  held  their  bones, 

And  the  mixed,  faulty  dialect  little  expressed 

But  the  powerful  emotion  which  shook  that  old  frame 

And  no  one  among  us  could  ever  have  guessed 

If  the  tragical  tale  was  of  flood  or  of  flame. 

I  remember  him  once  when  pretending  to  weep 
He  sat  himself  down  in  despair  on  the  floor, 
Some  request  was  refused  him,  his  sorrow  was  deep 
As  he  wiped  his  wet  eyes  on  the  mat  at  the  door, 


A  comedy  laughing  in  Memory  yet, 

One  of  the  lost  pictures  we  do  not  forget ; 

And  this  the  same  Modoc  you  speak  of  to-day 

"Wil-ti-Mo,"  the  new  hero,  the  old  Modoc  brave 

Who  rushed  through  a  fire-circled  wigwam  to  save 

A  poor,  sick,  old  Indian  left  on  his  bed 

When  the  thin  straw-thatched  roof  took  fire  overhead? 

And  I  think  of  one,  shall  I  call  him — man? 

O  his  skin  is  white,  and  some  would  say 

That  his  features  were  pleasing  to  look  upon, 

They  are  only  hateful  to  me  to-day, 

Old  Modoc  a  hero  and  he  a  worm, 

For  he  left  to  suffer  alone,  alone, 

The  truest  friend  that  his  life  had  known 

For  fear  of  a  possible  microbe  germ ! 

I'll  forget  about  him  if  I  can. 


165 


TO  THE  BIRDS 

O  lark,  whose  joyous  warbling  comes 
Across  the  flowery  field  to  me; 

O  red-winged  leaders  of  the  gay 
And  music-gifted  company 

Who  gave  the  Spring's  first  matinee, 
The  blackbirds'  jubilee. 

O  swallows,  perching  on  the  eaves 

Or  circling  in  the  air ; 
O  linnets,  chirping  in  the  vines 
Where  wild  rose  coyly  intervines 
With  virgin's  bower  and  wild  woodbines 

That  clamber,  here  and  there. 

O  ruby-throated  humming-birds, 
That  gem  the  sunbeam's  gold; 

Perching,  your  ditty  to  repeat, 

Tasting  the  honey-suckle  sweet 

Or  whirring  near  my  cloistered  seat, 
Half  timorous  and  half  bold. 

No  nightingale  pours  forth  at  eve 

His  famous  solo  here. 
No  sky-lark  soars  to  yonder  sky 
To  carol  Nature's  praise  on  high 
Or  gush  his  heaven-born  rhapsody 

From  fields  of  upper  air. 

Not  unto  these,  for  whom  the  bard 

His  richest  number  lends; 
But  unto  you,  who  build  and  brood 
By  yonder  stream,  in  yonder  wood, 
Companions  of  my  solitude, 

My  little  feathered  friends. 

[166] 


To  you  I  sing,  though  others  may 
Their  far-famed  gifts  rehearse 

And  sing  of  sky-larks  on  the  wing 

Where  none  were  ever  heard  to  sing; 

And  nightingales,  triumphant  bring 
To  grace  their  native  verse. 

Doubtless  the  Scottish  poet  finds 

In  these  a  lasting  joy. 
He  loves  his  own  green  spot  of  earth, 
Of  heath-clad  hill  and  foaming  firth ; 
But  holds  not  our  broad  land  enough 

Our  homage  to  employ. 

Ye  golden  warblers,  darting  now, 
Through  peach-bloom  canopies; 
Ye  orioles,  who  seek  the  grove 
To  sing  the  sonnets  of  your  love, 
In  joyous  warblings,  interwove 
With  softest  melodies. 

Ye  wild  canaries,  caroling 

Beneath  the  alders'  shade ; 
Ye  sprightly  grosbeaks,  whose  rich  lay 
From  apple-boughs  at  close  of  day, 
When  sauntering  on  my  homeward  way, 

My  willing  feet  have  stayed. 

And  last,  but  loveliest  of  them  all, 

In  fields,  or  woods,  or  dales, 
The  shy  lazuli-finch,  whose  song 
Is  borne  the  forest  aisles  along, 
Woodsy  and  wild,  to  you  belong 

Wild  hills  and  wooded  vales. 


And  many  another  chorister 

That  time  would  fail  to  tell, 
Who  helps  to  make  the  woods  resound 
With  bursts  of  rich  melodious  sound 
That  answering  echoes  from  around 

To  one  grand  chorus  swell. 

Long  may  your  notes  of  blithesome  cheer 

The  rounds  of  life  beguile. 
Long  may  your  bright  hues  flash  and  shine 
In  this  proud,  happy  land  of  mine, 
In  this  free,  joyous  land  of  thine, 

Gay  choir  of  forest  aisle ! 

Come  when  the  dove's  low  cooing  calls 

To  Spring's  first  bursting  bud. 
Come  when  the  honey-bee  invites, 
To  Summer's  bounteous  delights 
To  sunny  days  and  moonlight  nights 
The  fruitful  field  and  wood. 

And  when  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf 
Falls  murmuring  to  the  ground, 
Tarry,  to  chant  creation's  praise 
In  your  own  sunny,  witching  ways, 
So  long  as  bloom  and  fruitage  stays 
Or  sheltering  nooks  are  found. 

And  when  my  life's  glad  Spring  is  past, 

Its  apple-blooms  decayed ; 
And  when  my  life's  sweet  Summer  goes 
No  more  its  beauties  to  unclose; 
When  time  has  bloomed  its  latest  rose 

In  loneliness  to  fade. 


[168] 


Its  Autumn  sheaves  all  gathered  in 

Its  flame  to  ashes  burned. 
I  still  would  ask  thy  ministry. 
Come  to  my  grave  and  sing  to  me 
Creation's  sweetest  melody 

That  man  has  never  learned. 

Though  far  away,  I  may  not  hear, 

Yet  sweet  will  be  the  thought 
That  they  who  nearest  Heaven  soar, 
From  earth's  green  fields  and  wave-beat  shore, 
Still  sing  to  me  when  life  is  o'er 

And  others  have  forgot. 


[169] 


THE  REDEEMER 

Down  through  the  ancient  corridors  of  Time 
Isaiah's  deathless  song  rolled  full  and  sweet, 
It  swayed  the  universe  with  tones  sublime, 
It  shook  the  mighty  monarchies  of  Crime 
And  held  within  its  eloquence  complete 
A  prophecy  of  Satan's  sure  defeat. 

Over  Earth's  waving  fields  and  wave-beat  shore, 
Over  her  pomp  and  glory,  pride  and  gold, 
O'er  Art's  magnificence  in  cities  old, 
O'er  Nature's  artless  beauty,  sped  the  word 
Fresh  from  the  living  presence  of  the  Lord 
And  wise  men  marveled  at  its  mystic  lore. 

Not  only  to  the  mighty  did  it  come, 

Into  the  darkened  hovels  of  the  poor 

Swift  did  the  heralds  their  glad  message  bear, 

On  noiseless  wings  oped  Heaven's  mystic  door 

Revealing  all  the  hidden  glory  there 

And  lo,  the  prophet  saw  his  living  Lord, 

His  matchless  throne  and  gracious  seraphim, 
He  heard  the  message  of  the  King  of  Kings 
And  when  the  pearly  gates  swung  back  again 
And  the  blest  vision  vanished  from  his  sight 
He  trod  the  paths  of  this  world's  starless  night 
As  one  who  had  beheld  eternal  things. 

And  from  his  burning  pen  glad  Prophecies 
Caught  holy  wings  and  from  the  sacred  scroll 
Flew  to  the  earth's  remotest  boundaries 
Fraught  with  redemption  for  the  ruined  soul. 


[170] 


Ages  passed  by,  the  holy  prophet  slept; 
Man  hears  no  more  the  music  of  his  voice 
His  image  was  not  on  the  land  or  sea 
Still  his  blest  writings  made  the  world  rejoice 
And  still  his  glad  and  touching  prophecy 
Over  a  world  of  sorrow,  smiled  and  wept. 

Hushed  was  the  holy  night,  the  wise  men  trod 
Judea's  winding  paths  to  Bethlehem 
Their  glad  eyes  fixed  on  one  resplendent  gem 
Upheld  and  guided  by  the  hand  of  God 
That  bathed  the  Orient  in  celestial  light ; 

Onward  it  moved  in  majesty  sublime 

Its  mellow  beams  winging  their  flight  to  earth 

Fraught  with  glad  tidings  of  the  Saviour's  birth 

And  then  ascending  to  the  throne  divine 

To  tell  the  angels  of  a  world  redeemed, 

O'er  Heaven's  own  hosts  the  wondrous  glory  streamed. 

Earth  in  her  rapture  had  so  glorious  grown 
That  e'en  the  angels  could  not  stay  at  home 
But  left  the  realm  of  Heaven  to  join  the  strain 
That  God's  great  universe  could  scarce  contain, 
The  wonders  of  the  great  redemption  plan 
Destined  to  rescue  fallen,  ruined  man. 

O  prophets  of  to-day !  Isaiah  spake 

Of  Christ's  first  coming  to  a  world  of  sin, 

To-day  his  inspired  prophecy  awake 

And  yet  a  newer  triumph-hymn  begin, 

Sing,  'till  yon  heavens  take  up  the  rapturous  strain, 


[171] 


Jesus  has  come  and  he  shall  come  again, 

Not  as  before  a  meek  and  lowly  child, 

Not  as  before  to  die  upon  the  cross, 

Not  as  before  in  dark  Gethsemane 

To  suffer  for  a  world  of  sinners  lost ; 

He  comes  to  treasure  up  earth's  grain  and  gold, 

He  comes  to  cast  away  her  chaff  and  dross 

To  separate  the  pure  from  the  defiled. 

Not  from  an  humble  stable  shall  He  rise 

To  tread  a  thorny  path  of  woe  and  pain ; 

Christ  shall  descend  from  Heaven's  unclouded  skies 

With  angels  and  archangels  in  His  train, 

Lo,  He  shall  come  with  trumpet  and  with  shout, 

Mortals  let  not  your  flickering  lamps  go  out, 

Jesus  has  come  and  He  shall  come  again. 


THE  MEADOW  LARK 

A  loud  melodious  burst  of  sound  in  cheery,  blithesome  measure, 
A  call  uprising  from  the  ground  of  real  ecstatic  pleasure 

A  peal  of  mild  and  mellow  chimes, 

A  roll  of  wild  and  breezy  rhymes, 
A  gush  of  joy's  enraptured  climes — then  all  the  air  is  silent. 

But  once  again  the  singer  swells  his  throat  with  song  o'erflowing, 
Then  falls  another  chime  of  bells  where  shooting-stars  are  glow- 
ing, 

And  once  again  the  air  is  still 
Save  for  the  voice  of  laughing  rill, 

And  sunbeams  dance  from  stream  and  hill  across  the  flowery 
meadow. 

When  there  preparing  for  his  flight  from  an  adjacent  hollow 
A  meadow-lark  screams  his  delight  while  answering  echoes  follow, 

Perches  a  moment  on  a  stump 

With  yellow  breast,  well-fed  and  plump, 

Then  clears  the  marshy  weedy  clump  with  one  last  scream  of 
rapture. 

And  speeds  away  across  the  fields  to  join  his  gay  companions 
'Till  waving  grain  his   form  conceals  and  hides  his  fluttering 
pinions, 

While  dancing  beam 

And  circling  stream 
Like  sprites  of  mirth  and  laughter 
In  playful  frolic  whirl  and  gleam, 
Echo  takes  up  the  sportive  scream  and  sends  it  flying  after. 


[173] 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  SUICIDE 

Bring  no  fair  flowers  to  deck  his  tomb 
They  only  mock  its  rayless  gloom, 
No  virgin  lilies  sacrifice, 
No  pansies  with  their  pleading  eyes, 
No  royal  roses  bright  and  brave 
Condemn  to  deck  a  coward's  grave. 
Go  where  the  pure  and  lovely  sleep 
Where  holy  thoughts  like  mosses  creep 
And  sacred  memories  gather  'round 
To  glorify  the  hallowed  ground. 
Go  where  the  weary  soldier  rests, 
Where  muffled  drums  in  fearless  breasts 
That  beat  their  march  to  Honor's  grave 
Through  ardor's  flame  and  duty's  wave 
Now  lie  (fulfilled  their  latest  trust) 
And  mingled  with  their  country's  dust. 
Go  deck  the  graves  where'er  they  are 
That  hold  the  hero-hosts  of  war, 
Not  they  alone  who  dared  to  die 
For  right,  or  home,  or  liberty 
But  unto  those  just  honor  give 
Who  midst  life's  conflict  dared  to  live, 
Who  faced  the  armies  of  despair 
And  welcomed  death,  an  angel  there; 
Yet  rather  chose  through  years  of  woe 
The  torturing  rack  of  life  to  know 
Than  with  a  feeble  human  hand 
Destroy  the  temple  God  has  planned 
With  hope  to  find  the  peace  they  crave 
In  an  ignoble  coward's  grave. 
Who  lived,  when  death  were  easier  far, 
Are  heroes  in  life's  common  war. 
Bring  fairest  flowers  to  deck  the  spot 
That  chronicles  their  grief  forgot. 

[174] 


Your  virgin  lilies  sacrifice, 

Your  pansies  with  their  pleading  eyes, 

Your  royal  roses  bright  and  brave 

Anoint  to  deck  a  hero's  grave ; 

But  they  who  faced  a  petty  foe 

Nor  stayed  to  plan  its  overthrow, 

While  others  fearless  turned  to  wield 

Their  arms  on  many  a  fiery  field, 

These  slunk  from  out  the  heedless  crowd 

And  buttoning  on  their  gory  shroud 

While  wrong,  the  ranks  of  right  despoiled 

Lay  down  to  sleep  when  others  toiled. 

Cowards,  weak  cowards,  let  them  lie 

Unnoticed  'neath  their  natal  sky, 

The  onward  march  of  triumph  treads 

With  scorn  the  grasses  o'er  their  heads ; 

Erect  no  pedestal  of  pride 

O'er  the  ignoble  suicide. 

No  virgin  lilies  sacrifice, 

No  pansies  with  their  pleading  eyes, 

No  royal  roses  bright  and  brave 

Condemn  to  deck  a  coward's  grave. 

No  trailing  myrtle  vainly  place 

To  cover  o'er  a  life's  disgrace ; 

Weeds,  coarsest  weeds,  should  veil  the  mound 

With  its  profaned,  unhallowed  ground, 

Fit  symbol  they  of  low  desires 

Of  hearts  consumed  by  fiendish  fires, 

Of  minds  distorted,  souls  that  grow 

To  dwarfish  statures  base  and  low; 

And  if  perchance  a  wild  flower  springs 

Or  bird,  in  passing,  stops  and  sings 

Where  only  thistles,  grass  and  weeds 

Spring  up  each  year  to  drop  their  seeds, 

Tis  like  a  breath  of  Mercy's  prayer 

Midst  changeless  justice  bleak  and  bare. 

[175] 


He  perpetrates  a  complex  crime 
Who  dares  to  die  before  his  time. 
His  country  called  for  noble  men 
But  where  was  he,  the  traitor,  then  ? 
Life's  field  was  broad,  its  workers  few 
Yet  he  had  nothing  left  to  do, 
Truth  had  a  thousand  pearls  to  give 
And  he  had  naught  for  which  to  live. 
Life  is  so  short,  life's  work  so  great 
But  the  tired  idler  could  not  wait 
And  plotted  out  his  coward's  crime 
With  hope  to  rest  before  his  time. 
Who,  hath  the  temple  overthrown 
To  which  God  holds  the  key  alone, 
His  is  the  thief's  eternal  doom, 
His  is  the  prison's  hopeless  gloom, 
He  thinks  to  sleep,  ah,  vain  his  thought ! 
In  their  lone  cells  they  slumber  not ; 
Like  culprits  in  their  dungeon  bed 
They  only  wait  the  sentence  dread ; 
His  is  the  murderer's  awful  fate, 
His  grave  shall  be  his  prison  gate 
From  whence  again  with  faltering  breath 
He  goeth  trembling  to  his  death 
Upon  his  hands  the  murderer's  stain 
And  on  his  brow  the  mark  of  Cain ; 
Bring  no  fair  flowers  to  deck  his  tomb 
They  only  mock  its  rayless  gloom. 


[176] 


TO-NIGHT 

Gone  are  the  changing  shadows  of  the  gloaming, 
Lost  the  weird  fascination  of  their  spell; 
My  thoughts  like  twilight  truants  idly  roaming 
Turn  sadly  homeward,  loath  to  say  farewell. 

Darkness  has  veiled  the  landscape  from  my  vision 
But  Fancy  chooses  shadow  for  her  art, 
She  wreathes  the  stilly  night  in  flowers  Elysian 
And  strews  the  silent  threshold  of  the  heart. 

She  comes  and  gathers  up  the  heartaches  olden 
And  flings  them  out  upon  the  wandering  breeze, 
She  scatters  Hope's  bright  buds  but  half  unfolden 
Where  grew  the  briers  of  Fate's  austere  decrees. 

She  tunes  the  rusting  lyres  of  Love  and  Beauty 
And  times  them  to  the  twinkling  of  the  stars, 
She  covers  up  life's  page  of  hard,  plain  duty 
With  glory  like  the  sunset's  lustrous  bars. 

All  o'er  our  happy  land  fond  hearts  are  breaking 
And  tears  are  bathing  ruins,  wrecks  and  blight, 
Thousands  of  souls  with  awful  guilt  are  quaking 
And  many  a  home  is  desolate  to-night. 

But  over  all  a  seraph  spreads  her  pinions 
Her  graceful  form  is  poised  in  breezeless  air, 
Her  mission  to  all  nations  and  dominions 
To  sprinkle  holy  balm  on  earth's  despair ; 

So  though  so  many  hearts  are  bowed  with  sorrow 
And  Love  is  weeping  o'er  time's  wreck  and  blight, 
Hope  giveth  promise  of  a  bright  to-morrow 
And  Mercy  hovers  o'er  the  world  to-night. 

[177] 


LAMENT  OF  THE  FALLEN  OAK 

"Alas,  and  is  it  true  that  I  no  more 

Shall  stand  in  pride  and  beauty  as  of  yore, 

Strength  for  my  throne  and  grandeur  for  my  crown, 

Might  for  my  scepter?    Who  has  thrown  me  down? 

Who  dared  to  smite  the  monarch  of  the  wood? 

I,  who  for  many  centuries  withstood 

The  storm-king's  anger  and  the  wind-fiend's  wrath 

Dethroning  many  others  in  their  path, 

Stripping  the  leafy  forests,  thundering 

Down  the  wild  canyons,  ever  muttering 

In  baffled  rage  as  firm  beneath  their  frown 

I  stood,  defying  aught  to  tear  me  down. 

The  forest  fires  lit  up  the  woods  with  flame 

I  knew  not  where  they  went  or  whence  they  came, 

The  crackling  underbrush,  the  blazing  grass, 

Smoldered  to  ashes,  and  I  saw  them  pass; 

Flame  after  flame  in  madness  leaping  high 

Lighting  the  woods,  the  mountains  and  the  sky ; 

Yet  stood  I  like  some  armored,  dauntless  knight 

Unscathed,  unshrinking  in  the  thickest  fight; 

Even  the  long,  grey,  lightly  flowing  moss 

On  limb  and  twig  still  free  in  sport  to  toss 

To  every  breeze  that  hummed  its  lullaby 

Through  the  high  branches  of  the  old  oak  tree. 

The  sound  of  the  wood-chopper  as  at  morn 

Waked  the  still  echoes  and  as  downward  borne 

To  the  same  soil  from  which  they  one  day  sprang 

The  trees  returned,  the  dim  old  forest  rang. 

Crash!   And  the  highest  were  forever  low; 

Then  fell  the  chopper's  axe,  blow  after  blow 

Resounding  through  the  forest  'till  at  last 

Nothing  was  left  to  whisper  of  their  past 

But  the  low  stumps  decaying  in  the  ground 

And  the  dry  brush  of  branches  strewn  around ; 


Yet  towering  still  above  their  sudden  fall 

I  stood  unshaken,  monarch  over  all; 

But  now,  alas,  why  vanished  triumphs  tell? 

On  me  at  last  the  lot  of  nature  fell, 

No  storm  of  terror  shook  my  bulwarks  down 

No  war  of  elements  laid  low  my  crown, 

No  burning  fiery  furnace  scathed  my  bark, 

No  lightning  arrow  chose  me  for  its  mark, 

No  feeble  instrument  in  feebler  hand 

Forbade  my  leafy  throne  to  longer  stand ; 

But  fell  the  gentle  rain  from  clouds  above 

On  field  and  forest,  mountain,  plain  and  grove 

'Till  countless  springs  stray  rivulets  supplied 

And  swelled  the  torrent  to  a  rushing  tide 

'Till  every  hill-slope  shone  with  silver  threads, 

With  tiny  pebbles  in  their  shallow  beds, 

With  sap  refreshed  and  leaves  of  brighter  green 

I  gazed  in  gladness  on  the  freshened  scene ; 

But  every  leaf  was  weighed  with  rain-drops  down 

And  heavier  grew  my  lofty,  leafy  crown. 

The  mistletoe  adorning  every  bough 

Seemed  like  a  mighty  weight  of  metal  now, 

And  still  the  rain-drops  fell  though  every  hill 

Seemed  gushing  forth  in  gurgling  spring  and  rill ; 

And  still  the  clouds  poured  down  their  crystal  flood 

Swelling  each  purling  stream  and  bursting  bud ; 

When  a  slight  tremor  through  my  being  ran, 

A  shiver  midst  my  highest  twigs  began, 

A  loosening  midst  the  roots  embedded  deep 

In  the  firm  earth,  where  centuries  saw  them  creep 

'Till  grown  to  giant  strength  and  giant  size 

They  bade  the  sapling  high  and  higher  rise; 

Upheaving  earth,  uptearing  rocks  around — 

Hush!   Through  the  silent  glades  a  thundering  sound, 

A  crash  of  splintering  boughs,  an  awful  thud — 

And  then  oppressive  silence  in  the  wood. 

Alas,  my  fall !   The  little  birds  no  more 

[179] 


Shall  sing  among  my  branches  as  of  yore, 

Their  last  year's  nests  have  shared  my  sudden  doom 

No  more  in  early  Springtime  will  they  come 

With  twitters  of  artless  ecstasy 

To  build  their  dwellings  in  the  old  oak  tree ; 

No  more  with  tiny  wings  raised  timidly 

From  twig  to  twig  the  baby-birds  shall  fly 

And  try  their  first  weak  songs  beneath  the  leaves 

That  to  their  cozy  homes  were  roof  and  eaves. 

Ye  pigeons,  that  with  fluttering  pinions  stayed 

To  gather  acorns  in  the  deepest  shade, 

Ye  red-winged  blackbirds  that  year  after  year 

In  earliest  Spring  were  wont  to  gather  here 

Holding  the  season's  first  grand  jubilee 

Among  the  branches  of  the  old  oak  tree, 

Why  more  upon  your  vanished  music  dwell 

Since  all  is  past?   My  feathered  friends — farewell. 

Ye  frisking  squirrels  that  to  your  burrows  bore 

My  plenteous  acorns  for  your  Winter  store, 

Ye  lambs  that  nibbled  the  young  grass  below 

And  frolicked  where  the  wild-flowers  loved  to  blow, 

Green  grow  the  fields  and  blue  the  Summer  sky 

But  as  for  me — a  last  and  long— goodbye. 

Ye  cheerful  wind-flowers  that  with  dewy  breath 

Freighted  the  sunshine  and  shade  beneath, 

Fair,  frail  nemophilas  in  freshness  grown 

By  Nature's  hand  in  rich  profusion  sown 

With  wide  blue  eyes  in  loveliness  upraised 

That  oft  through  dew-drop  tears  so  sweetly  gazed 

Or  clear  as  bluest  depths  of  Summer  sky 

Looked  up  to  those  blue  heavens  lovingly, 

And  dainty  cream-cups  mingling  with  the  blue, 

Bright,  tender  wild-flowers  evermore — adieu.      v- 

And  thou,  encircling  stream,  that  at  my  foot 

Didst  fall  in  cascades  over  rock  and  root 


[180 


Where  fairy  fern-fronds  like  Narcissus  vain 

Their  graceful  forms  saw  mirrored  back  again 

In  glassy  pools  below  the  cascade's  fall 

And  waved  to  every  zephyr's  breezy  call, 

I  saw  thee  every  year  farther  below, 

Thou  saw'st  my  rise,  my  reign,  my  overthrow; 

Again  the  wild  deer  shall  the  grasses  press 

That  carpet  all  around  with  loveliness, 

Again  the  hunter  rest  upon  the  brink 

Of  the  cool  stream  and  from  its  waters  drink; 

But  nevermore  shall  my  inviting  shade 

Shield  the  fierce  heat  of  Summer  from  the  glade : 

Trailing  in  dust  are  all  my  hoary  plumes 

While  every  sunny  hour  my  life  consumes, 

And  long  grey  moss  and  broken  mistletoe 

Lie  strewn  around  like  cerements  of  woe. 

I  envy  now  the  tules  by  yonder  lake 

That  bend  to  every  gale  but  do  not  break, 

The  tallest,  half  way  sunk  in  waters  deep, 

Their  feeble  roots  through  mire  and  driftings  creep ; 

Yet  I,  with  giant  roots  through  rock-beds  wound 

Or  firmly  fastened  in  the  solid  ground, 

I,  who  once  called  them  weak,  and  small  and  low, 

Fain  would  be  growing  as  I  see  them  grow. 

But  why  my  common  heritage  deplore? 

The  bravest  warrior  finds  his  triumphs  o'er, 

The  mightiest  king  laments  the  fatal  hour 

When  ruined  lies  the  scepter  of  his  power; 

And  I  have  lived  while  empires  rose  and  fell 

And  kings  lived  out  their  little  day  as  well ; 

Yet  I  who  stood  for  centuries  the  same, 

Chanting  the  triumph  song  of  power  and  fame, 

Now  lie  with  all  my  vaunted  vigor  spent 

The  vanity  of  pride  my  last  lament!" 


181  ] 


THE   BUTTERFLY 

Butterfly,  butterfly,  where  are  you  going? 

Do  you  dine  today  with  the  regal  rose 

Or  nectar  sip  with  the  lilies  blowing 

In  the  golden  noontide's  sweet  repose? 
Away,  away,  on  silken  pinions, 
Gay  guest  of  Flora's  proudest  minions. 

Or  will  you  pause  midst  the  fragrant  clover 
And  their  humbler  viands  not  despise, 
While  the  proud  tuberoses  wait  their  lover 
And  the  pansies  smile  from  their  velvet  eyes  ? 
Away,  away,  on  dainty  pinions 
Gay  guest  in  Flora's  fair  dominions. 

Butterfly,  butterfly,  praised  and  petted 

Welcomed  and  feasted  and  loved  by  all, 

Say  have  you  ever  yet  regretted 

That  an  humble  worm  you  learned  to  crawl 
You  who  soar  on  sun-dyed  pinions 
With  bees  and  blossoms  for  companions? 

O,  like  the  worm  we  must  aspire 
To  a  higher  flight  and  a  lovelier  guise, 
If  on  unseen  wings  we  mount  up  higher 
And  from  a  worm  of  the  dust  arise, 

A  full-fledged  wonderful  new  creation 
On  the  pinions  of  noble  aspiration! 

O,  like  the  worm  we  must  repair 
From  the  coarse  low  things  of  the  worm's  delight 
And  wind  our  souls  in  the  shreds  of  prayer 
And  fashion  us  wings  for  an  endless  flight; 
Then  bursting  forth  from  our  chrysalis 
Taste  the  sweets  of  the  highest  happiness! 


WITHIN    THE   VEIL 

O  friends,  now  entered  on  a  new  existence 
(Whose  forms  from  sight  have  gone 
That  we  shall  know  within  that  untrod  distance 
To  which  our  steps  press  on). 

What  waits  us  there  ?    In  all  our  imperfection 
Can  we  step  out  upon  that  untried  land? 
Ye  come  not  back,  who  wait  the  resurrection 
To  lead  us  by  the  hand. 

Ah!  through  the  pitfalls  of  this  world  of  dangers 
A  love  has  led  that  still  hath  power  to  guide, 
We  entered  here  as  lost  and  helpless  strangers, 
God's  endless  future  is  not  more  untried. 

Casting  aside  our  earth-chained  false  ambition, 
Taking  with  gladness  all  His  love  hath  planned, 
To  follow  where  He  leads,  our  highest  mission 
Through  life,  through  death  into  the  better  land. 


183] 


THE   PATRIOT  ABROAD 

He  stood  in  a  foreign  port 

In  the  midst  of  the  clamoring  din 

Straining  his  eyes  o'er  the  peaceful  waves, 
Watching  the  ships  come  in. 

There  were  French  and  Italian  frigates 

And  British  men-of-war 
And  flags  of  all  nationalities 

Streaming  their  colors  afar ; 

But  one  of  the  many  caught  his  eye 

And  raised  his  eager  hand 
To  wave  his  hat  in  welcome, 

'Twas  the  flag  of  his  native  land. 

It  flung  on  the  Orient  zephyrs 

Freedom's  prophetic  types 
While  India's  sunbeams  sported 

In  Columbia's  stars  and  stripes, 

And  it  spake  to  the  lonely  traveler 
Of  his  home  across  the  main 

Where  it  waved  in  majestic  beauty 
O'er  the  freedman's  sundered  chain. 

What  wonder  he  greeted  its  coming 
With  a  glad  and  grateful  heart, 

It  seemed  of  his  country, — an  emblem, 
Of  his  cherished  home, — a  part. 

Like  a  star  from  his  native  heaven 
Or  a  message  from  some  loved  name, 

Or  a  flower  plucked  from  his  garden 
On  the  wings  of  a  dove  it  came. 


Float  on,  loved  flag  of  Freedom 

O'er  many  a  foreign  sea 
And  wake  in  the  hearts  of  thousands 

The  echoes  of  liberty! 


BABY   BESSIE 

With  strong,  free  motion  of  life  and  limb 
Bessie  is  climbing  the  hill, 
With  rose-cheeks  under  her  bonnet's  brim 
To  the  time  of  her  own  sweet  will; 
May  the  world  hold  peace  and  happiness 
And  all  that  is  good  and  true  for  Bess. 

"  Bess,"  hear  the  parrot  call 

From  his  cage  in  the  old  madrone, 

Hugged  to  her  heart  is  Jane  the  doll 

Now  faded  and  aged  grown, 

The  flowers  of  Springtime  will  bloom  again 

But  beauty  will  never  come  back  to  Jane. 

Up  the  long  grass  slopes  where  the  sheep  flocks  browse 

She  comes  without  pause  for  rest 

A  ginger  cooky  from  Grandpa's  house 

Held  tight  in  her  chubby  fist, 

I'll  have  sardines  and  doughnuts  and  apples  and  tea 

For  Bessie  has  come  to  take  lunch  with  me. 

Bessie,  you  brave  little  mountaineer, 
I've  a  picture  that's  hid  from  sight 
But  I  could  see  it  as  plain  and  clear 
If  I  shut  my  eyes  up  tight, — 
A  vision  of  brown-eyed  rosiness 
A  little  friend  by  the  name  of  Bess. 


THERE   IS   A   GOD 

The  fool  hath  said,  "There  is  no  God" 

But  Wisdom,  hour  by  hour, 
Proclaimeth  over  land  and  sea 
In  sweet  unbroken  harmony 

His  glory,  love  and  power. 

Who  formed  the  earth,  who  built  the  sky, 

Who  planned  the  circling  year? 
Seed  time  and  harvest  roll  around 
We  listen — but  no  jarring  sound 

In  Time's  great  wheels  we  hear. 

Day  unto  day,  night  unto  night, 

For  toil  and  rest  designed; 
Surely  some  living  mind  hath  thought 
Who  spake  a  universe  from  naught 

Had  more  than  mortal  mind. 

Some  sculptor  hand  hath  formed  the  earth, 

Some  architect 

Hath  reared  the  heavens  to  their  height, 
Some  artist  with  his  colors  bright 

All  nature  decked. 

Who  wrought  the  delicate  design 

Of  leaf  and  bud? 

Who  to  the  bird  his  music  taught, 
If  as  the  blinded  fool  hath  thought 

There  is  no  God? 


[186] 


Who  shall  avenge  the  innocent 

Whose  speaking  blood 

Cries    from  the   ground   wronged   Nature's   curse 
If  in  the  boundless  universe 

There  is  no  God? 

And  who  fulfill  those  hopes  that  pant 

Through  fire  and  flood? 
What  solace  can  they  give  instead 
Who  with  the  blinded  fool  have  said : 

"There  is  no  God?" 

"  There  is  no  God,"  the  fool  hath  said, 

On  earth's  green  sod; 
But  Wisdom  speaks  from  earth  to  sky 
And  sings  from  world  to  world  on  high 

There  is  a  God. 


THE   PROCESSION 

Lo,  'tis  a  vast  procession  passing  by 
From  the  great  amphitheater  of  the  past! 
The  cloistered  avenues  of  imagery 
Glow  with  the  flame-light  from  their  torches  cast, 
The  suns  of  centuries  hurried  to  their  goal, 
Their  goal  the  chaos  of  the  past  unveiled, 
The  moons  and  stars  of  years  beyond  control ; 
Are  these  their  torches,  these  by  distance  paled  ? 
No;  from  their  hands  the  quenchless  font  of  flame 
Shines  brightening  over  suns  forever  set, 
The  burning  rays  of  Truth's  immortal  fame 
Forbid  the  future,  to  the  past  forget ; 

But  who  are  they  of  silent,  stately  tread 
Still  moving  on  to  martial  music  sweet 
While  careless  hands  by  passing  impulse  led 
Are  scattering  briers  and  blossoms  at  their  feet? 
O,  these  are  they  with  whose  life- victories 
The  past,  the  future  lavishly  endows 
The  breezes  of  the  coming  centuries 
Shall  lightly  wave  the  laurels  on  their  brows ! 

Ye  crowds,  who  watch  the  grand  processions  march 
Along  the  cities'  bannered  avenues, 
Turn  to  where  vague  oblivion's  boughs  o'er-arch 
From  whose  deep  shades  this  regal  train  issues 
Down  through  the  centuries  crowded  thoroughfares 
Gathering  fresh  numbers  in  their  sure  advance, 
Each  face,  the  mark  of  life-won  battle  bears; 
They  come  not  here  by  fortune,  fate  or  chance. 

And  will  you  turn  from  these  again  to  gaze 
On  some  clan  ego's  petty  pageantry? 
Time's  grand  centennials  mark  their  day  of  days 
For  theirs  is  more  than  vaunted  vain  display; 

[188] 


Behold  they  come,  a  strong  resistless  force 
Unstopped  by  opposition's  adamant 
But  pressing  onward  in  their  kingly  course 
Truth's  principles  immortal  to  implant; 

Yet  not  like  plumed  knights  bearing  pennons  gay 
Down  Fancy's  lighted  avenues  they  come, 
O  what  a  thoughtful,  earnest  train  are  they 
Advancing  to  old  Time's  year-measured  drum, 
Not  like  grim  soldiers  marching  on  to  war, 
Not  like  exultant  gatherings  national 
No  wave-washed  empire  boundary  can  bar 
From  any  realm  what  they  have  won  for  all ! 

They  who  have  laid  Truth's  pearl-hewn  corner  stone 

And  struck  unerring  blows  at  Falsity 

'Till  her  proud  atoms  to  the  four-winds  blown 

But  Prophecy,  how  great  her  fall  shall  be! 

Ah !  many  figures  there  we  recognize, 

Not  by  a  memory  of  form  or  face 

But  by  that  recognition  that  defies 

The  cold,  remorseless  sweep  of  time  and  space. 

Have  we  not  walked  with  them  in  paths  apart, 
Held  with  their  thoughts  benign  communion  sweet, 
Whispering  soul  to  soul  and  heart  to  heart 
Or  sat  like  children  learning  at  their  feet? 
But,  lo,  among  their  numbers  there  is  none 
Like  to  One  only,  more  than  all  beside 
Thorns  for  unfading  laurel-wreaths  He  won 
He,  who  for  man  alone,  hath  lived  and  died. 

The  wreckless  curb-stone-crowds,  how  many  yet 
Are  scattering  cruel  briers  in  His  path, 
O,  do  they  in  their  heedlessness  forget 
That  heavens  of  mercy  yet  will  cloud  with  wrath ! 

[189] 


From  the  elixir  of  the  purest  truth 
Turn  they  toward  an  image  built  of  naught 
Drinking  through  life,  in  childhood,  age  and  youth 
The  bitterness  of  some  deceiver's  plot. 

Thanks  be  to  you,  ye  great  souls  of  the  past, 
For  the  life-lessons  ye  have  lived  to  teach; 
Thanks  be  to  you  that  on  Time's  current  cast 
Fresh  leaves  of  truth  float  ever  in  our  reach, 
And  have  they  gone,  the  realms  of  imagery, 
Dissolve  their  magic  barriers  to  the  real, 
Roll  in,  ye  waves  of  life's  prosaic  sea 
But  when  will  Fancy's  queen  their  ranks  reveal  ? 

O  they  will  come  again  when  vain  and  weak 
Seemeth  the  strife  of  man  to  live  for  men, 
Unto  our  lives  their  deathless  lives  will  speak 
Down  through  the  noise  of  centuries  that  have  been ! 
O  they  will  come,  yea  ever  and  anon 
With  that  majestic  presence  high  and  calm; 
Until  with  them  our  teachers,  we  sit  down 
To  the  glad  marriage-supper  of  the  Lamb! 


DEATH 

Dark  were  the  world  if  o'er  its  gloom 
The  gospel  light  had  never  dawned, 
Hopeless  our  fate  if  through  the  tomb 
We  saw  no  better  world  beyond. 

The  smile  of  earthly  gladness  fades 
Destined  to  swift  and  sure  decay, 
Disease  this  mortal  frame  invades 
And  leaves  but  cold  and  lifeless  clay. 

So  brief  is  life — a  few  short  years 
Measure  this  fleeting  transient  breath, 
Sorrow  and  gladness,  smiles  and  tears 
Surrender  to  the  angel, — Death. 

"  Come  unto  me,"  the  Saviour  said ; 
No  more  a  weary  pilgrim  roam; 
Swift  through  the  night  the  chariot  sped 
That  bore  the  deathless  spirit  home. 

Veiled  are  the  joyous,  sparkling  eyes, 
No  more  on  earth  to  smile  or  weep, 
No  more  to  ope  in  glad  surprise 
When  earthly  music  breaks  their  sleep. 

Peaceful  is  now  the  weary  brain 
Its  tumult  stilled,  its  tempest  o'er, 
Its  once  bright  prospects  slowly  wane 
As  lights  upon  a  distant  shore. 

But  oh,  true  heart,  art  thou  asleep? 
Thou  who  wert  faithful  to  the  last 
Struggling  the  flickering  flame  to  keep 
When  all  else  sank  before  the  blast? 


Yes,  thou  art  still.     No  earthly  voice 
Can  rouse  thee  from  thy  pulseless  calm, 
The  heart  once  weighed  with  many  a  cross 
Has  changed  its  sorrows  for  a  psalm. 

They  are  not  here,  the  soul  has  left 
But  the  frail  house  of  its  abode, 
The  fires  are  quenched  the  hearth  bereft 
That  once  with  warmth  and  beauty  glowed. 

Through  the  dim  windows,  curtained  now, 

Once  an  ethereal  spirit  shone; 

On  the  pale  rigid  cheek  and  brow 

The  blushing  rose  of  health  has  blown. 

The  mind  dwells  not  within  its  walls 
Nor  knows  its  desolate  decay 
But  far  beyond  death's  lonely  halls 
It  revels  in  eternal  day. 

The  heart  that  oft  unsatisfied 
Throbbed  with  a  longing  unexpressed, 
Freed  when  the  quaking  mortal  died, 
Has  found  the  Christian's  peaceful  rest. 

When  on  a  lonely  coffin  lid 
You  hear  the  heavy  clods  descend, 
And  "  dust  to  dust  "  is  sadly  said 
Above  the  ashes  of  a  friend ; 

Oh,  do  not  mourn  in  mute  despair! 
Death  cannot  break  love's  silent  power ; 
The  hidden  bud  we  nourish  here 
In  Heaven  has  bloomed  a  perfect  flower. 


[192] 


Love  cannot  die.    A  lengthened  chain 
Binds  heart  and  soul,  and  mind  and  will 
To  those  we  hope  to  meet  again, 
The  same  dear  friends  who  love  us  still. 

The  Christian  knows  no  darkened  grave, 
Before  earth's  bells  their  dirge  could  toll 
Angelic  palms  began  to  wave 
To  welcome  home  a  weary  soul. 

Gather  sweet  flowers  of  hope  and  love 
And  bring  them  with  a  noiseless  tread, 
Symbols  of  joys  that  bloom  above, 
To  strew  around  your  sacred  dead. 

And  as  their  sweet  perfumes  arise 
Linked  with  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer 
Look  up  to  yonder  paradise 
And  count  your  loss  a  triumph  there. 

For  Hope's  triumphant  bow  has  spanned 
The  cloud  that  hovers  o'er  the  tomb, 
And  Faith  beholds  the  better  land 
Where  fairer  flowers  than  Eden's  bloom. 


WE  SHALL  SLEEP  BUT  WE  SHALL  WAKEN 

We  shall  sleep  but  we  shall  waken 
In  the  morning  bright  and  fair, 
We,  by  sudden  night  o'ertaken 
In  a  land  of  dark  despair ; 
Whatsoever  may  befall  us 
Though  our  rest  be  long  and  deep, 
Jesus  in  the  morn  will  call  us 
Call  us  from  our  silent  sleep. 

We  shall  sleep  but  we  shall  waken 
Though  the  night  be  cold  and  drear, 
Not  forgotten,  not  forsaken, 
With  a  dear  Friend  watching  near; 
Long  may  be  the  night  of  sadness 
Yet  that  Friend,  His  watch  shall  keep 
'Till  the  glorious  morn  of  gladness 
When  He  wakes  us  from  our  sleep. 

We  shall  sleep,  but  we  shall  waken 
At  the  sound  of  that  dear  voice 
At  whose  murmur  thrones  have  shaken, 
At  whose  whisper  saints  rejoice; 
O'er  our  newly  wakened  vision 
Floods  of  holy  light  shall  sweep 
From  that  morning-dawn  Elysian 
When  He  wakes  us  from  our  sleep. 

We  shall  sleep  but  we  shall  waken, 
Jesus  slept,  and  woke  before; 
We  shall  sleep  and  we  shall  waken 
When  our  silent  sleep  is  o'er; 
On  the  stillness  of  our  slumbers 
Shall  break  forth  that  music  deep 
From  glad  hosts  in  countless  numbers 
When  He  wakes  us  from  our  sleep. 

[194] 


We  shall  sleep  but  we  shall  waken, 
We  shall  meet  with  friends  long  dead, 
Those  who  from  our  sight  were  taken 
To  a  cold  and  narrow  bed ; 
From  the  loftiest  tomb's  dark  prison, 
From  the  lowliest  grass-grown  heap, 
We  shall  rise  as  Christ  has  risen 
When  he  wakes  us  from  our  sleep. 

We  shall  sleep  but  we  shall  waken 
In  the  resurrection  morn, 
We,  by  sudden  night  o'ertaken, 
Wanderers  lost  amid  the  storm ; 
Whatsoever  may  befall  us, 
Though  our  rest  be  long  and  deep, 
Jesus  in  the  morn  will  call  us, 
Call  us  from  our  silent  sleep. 


[195] 


EARTH'S  POWER  AND  WEAKNESS 

Earth,  thou  hast  grandeur,  mighty  piles  are  thine 
Of  human  skill  and  workmanship  divine, 
Nature  and  art  their  kindred  aims  unite 
To  build  thy  loftiest  monuments  of  might, 
And  dip  their  jeweled  pens  in  floods  of  flame 
To  write  the  deathless  eulogies  of  fame, 
Where  malice  cannot  one  bright  line  deface 
Or  envy  tear  the  record  from  its  place ; 
Thy  castles  and  thy  crags  tower  side  by  side 
By  them  the  quaking  elements  defied, 
Give  o'er  their  strife  and  cease  their  paltry  war, 
Lay  down  their  spears  and  own  thee,  conqueror. 

Earth,  thou  hast  wealth,  uncounted  gold  is  thine, 
Jewels  lie  stored  within  thy  hidden  mine ; 
Safe  in  thy  vaults  for  centuries  they  have  lain, 
Mortals  have  striven  to  claim  them,  but  in  vain, 
Over  thy  wealth  is  set  a  solemn  seal. 
Ah !  let  the  arrant  thief  break  through  to  steal, 
Thy  jewels  still  shall  deck  thy  vast  domain ; 
Thy  gold  shall  glitter  in  thy  vaults  again, 
Man  cannot  from  thy  breast  thy  treasures  bear, 
The  miser  guards  his  hoards  with  jealous  care 
Claiming  them,  while  he  leaves  them  all  behind, 
He  proves  at  last  the  truth  that  they  are  thine. 

Earth,  thou  hast  beauty,  varied  charms  are  thine 
Wrought  in  rich  fabrics  and  in  rare  design 
Thy  galleries  of  art  thy  smiles  display ; 
Thy  pictured  landscapes  loveliest  themes  portray; 
Beautiful  are  the  songs  that  pierce  thy  air 
And  beautiful  thy  holy  tones  of  prayer ; 


[196] 


Thy  sun  that  smiles  thee  and  thy  clouds  between 
Casts  o'er  thy  features  a  transparent  sheen; 
From  Night's  fleet  chariot,  her  priestess  pale 
Spreads  o'er  thy  slumbering  face  a  silvery  veil. 
Yes ;  in  great  beauty  are  thy  features  planned 
Molded  by  an  all  wise,  almighty  hand. 

Earth,  thou  hast  glory,  pomp  and  pride  are  thine, 

Thy  sun  of  promise  knoweth  no  decline, 

Thy  might  is  sung  by  vast  assemblages 

And  grand  processions  offer  thee  their  praise, 

Resounding  aisles  thy  eulogies  prolong 

And  martialed  hosts  repeat  thy  triumph  song; 

They  pass  away  to  rest  beneath  thy  turf 

Or  make  their  graves  below  thy  briny  surf, 

But  other  tongues  awake  the  dying  strain 

And  chant  the  endless  anthem  of  thy  fame ; 

Yes,  thou  hast  glory,  mighty  Earth,  on  thee 

Waiteth  unrivaled  pomp  and  pageantry. 

Thou  hast  all  these,  oh  Earth !  all  these  are  thine. 
Beauty  and  wealth  and  pageantry  combine 
To  serve  thee  during  all  thy  long  career, 
These  have  been  thine  for  many,  many  a  year; 
These  shall  be  thine,  thy  jeweled  hands  may  hold 
All  that  thou  hast  of  glory,  gems  or  gold. 
Ages  have  sped  away  on  pinions  fleet 
But  still  thy  treasures  glitter  at  thy  feet ; 
Ages  may  tread  again  thy  golden  sands, 
They  cannot  tear  thy  riches  from  thy  hands, 
Keep  them,  oh  Earth !  to  thee  they  all  belong, 
We  claim  them  but  we  do  not  want  them  long; 
A  few  short  years  and  we  must  leave  behind 
All  that  we  have  or  hope  in  thee  to  find. 


197] 


But  one  thing,  Earth,  one  thing  thou  canst  not  bind ; 
Thou  canst  not  fetter  the  immortal  mind. 
The  soul  defies  thy  will  and  breaks  thy  bands 
Bursts  through  thy  bars  and  flees  from  thy  commands, 
Thy  gold  and  gems  are  safe  within  thy  grasp 
But,  lo,  the  spirit  slips  from  out  thy  clasp ; 
Soars  on  its  sunbright  wings  to  cloudless  spheres 
Nor  glances  backward  to  thy  realm  of  tears ; 
Chained  in  thy  prison  cells  or  dungeons  deep 
Where  sentinels  their  sleepless  vigil  keep, 
On  fearless  pinions  plumed  for  holier  air, 
They  pass  thy  prison-gates,  nor  tarry  there. 

Consigned  to  marble  tombs,  hid  in  the  deep 
No  plan  of  thine  thy  richest  prize  may  keep ; 
The  soul  of  deathless  and  imperial  birth 
This  grandest  treasure  is  not  thine,  oh  Earth ! 
What  is  thy  hoarded  wealth  and  boasted  power  ? 
What  is  thy  rarest  charm  or  richest  dower, 
When  one  bright  gem  that  flashes  on  thy  shore 
Shall  live  and  reign  when  thou  shalt  be  no  more  ? 


POISON  IVY  (Rhus  toricodendron) 

In  the  pasture's  tangled  thickets 
Clinging  to  old  mossy  stumps, 
Running  over  rocks  and  rubbish, 
In  long  wreaths  or  tangled  clumps, 
Clambering  up  the  gnarled  old  tree-trunks 
With  its  strong  aerial  roots, 
Sporting  in  the  balmy  breezes, 
Graceful  sprays  and  glossy  shoots. 
A  fair  vine,  with  lovely  foliage, 
Any  season,  may  be  seen. 
In  the  Autumn,  gold  and  crimson, 
In  the  Springtime,  glossy  green. 
Charming  in  its  every  feature. 
Beautiful  as  heart  could  want. 
Who  would  think  then  of  avoiding 
This  fair  vine's  sequestered  haunt? 
Vet  beware,  and  think  how  often 
Earth's  most  charming  loveliest  things. 
Hide  beneath  a  fair  exterior, 
Poisonous  sap,  or  cruel  stings, 
Touch  not,  'tis  the  poison  ivy; 
Spurn  its  festooned  haunt  with  care; 
Trust  not,  'tis  a  fair  deception, 
Hidden  guile  is  lurking  there. 
Type  of  many  another  nature, 
False,  untrue,  yet  passing  fair. 
Trifling  with  the  poison  ivy 
Prudence  cries :    "  O  friends,  beware !" 


[199] 


A  SONG  OF  PRAISE 

Thou,  whose  immortal  praise  is  sung 
In  hymns  of  deathless  fame, 

O,  teach  a  feeble,  faltering  tongue 
To  magnify  Thy  name ! 

Thy  name,  at  which  the  angels  fall 
And  veil  each  shining  brow, 

Thy  name,  on  which  the  lowliest  call, 
To  which  the  loftiest  bow. 

O,  for  a  language  to  adore 
Thy  glorious  name  on  earth! 

O,  for  a  heavenly  harp  to  pour 
Thy  heartfelt  praises  forth ! 

O,  for  a  hymn  to  praise  Thee  still, 

When  centuries  have  fled ; 
When  all  who  now  life's  stations  fill 

Are  numbered  with  the  dead ! 

A  hymn  to  praise  Thee  as  thou  art 

Redeemer,  Lover,  Friend, 
Fraught  with  the  language  of  my  heart, 

'Till  fleeting  time  shall  end. 

Alas !  I  learn  how  weak  my  powers 
The  depths  of  love  to  reach, 

How  finite  are  these  joys  of  ours, 
How  vain  is  human  speech. 

Only  a  thankful  heart,  I  bring 

For  all  thy   love   to   give, 
To  Thee,  by  faltering  faith,  I  cling; 

Who  died,  that  I  might  live. 

F  200  1 


O,  keep  that  heart  in  perfect  peace! 

O,  keep  it  pure  and  white! 
That  feeble,  fluttering  faith  increase 

Till  changed  to  perfect  sight. 

Only  for  one  sweet  song,  I  yearn 

My  gladness  to  express, 
That  some  might  turn  to  Thee,  and  learn 

What  changeless  pleasure  is. 

O,  for  the  song  the  Blessed  sing ! 

O,  for  their  living  lyres! 
O,  for  an  angel's  flaming  wing 

To  fan  immortal  fires! 

Vainly,  I  long  to  sing  Thy  love, 

Thy  changeless  love  to  me, 
O,  for  a  life  whose  truth  shall  prove 

A  silent  psalm  to  Thee ! 

Help  me  in  living  faithfully 

To  glorify  Thy  grace ; 
Then  shall  I  sing  eternally 

When  I  behold  Thy  face. 


[201  ] 


THE  DEEP  OF  DESPAIR  AND  THE  HAVEN  OF 
HAPPINESS 

Like  a  vision  it  gleamed  through  the  darkness 
And  flashed  on  my  wondering  view, 
And  at  first,  not  the  half  of  its  beauty 
Nor  the  depth  of  its  meaning,  I  knew ; 
'Till  as  a  fair  painting  in  shadows 
Grows  clearer  when  daylight  has  dawned, 
A  radiance  illumined  its  dimness 
As  if  touched  by  some  magical  wand. 

The  scene  was  a  tempest-tossed  ocean, 
Frightfully  dismal  and  dark, 
But  soon  on  the  waves,  I  saw  tossing 
The  form  of  a  frail  little  barque ; 
And  nearer  and  nearer  it  floated 
'Till  plain  to  my  view  it  had  grown, 
And  I  saw  in  it,  weary  and  helpless, 
A  woman  sat  weeping  alone. 

Then  an  angel  came  down  from  the  heavens 
And  poised  her  light  wings  on  the  air, 
While  she  gazed  on  the  waves'  inky  blackness 
And  the  dense,  heavy  clouds  of  Despair, 
And  the  tempest  grew  louder  and  louder 
And  the  breakers  dashed  higher ;  until 
She  breathed  on  the  turbulent  waters 
And  the  voice  of  their  murmuring  was  still. 

And  the  woman  aroused  by  the  calmness 
From  the  depths  of  her  sorrow  awoke 
And  lifting  her  eyes,  saw  the  angel, 
And  thus  in  soft  accents  she  spoke  : 
"  O  angel !  bright  angel !  my  life  barque 
Has  long  sailed  on  this  dreary  sea, 


202  ] 


I  have  long  sought  a  harbor  of  refuge 
But  no  morning  shall  dawn  upon  me. 

For  oh !  I  have  left  them  behind  me 

The  harbors  I  once  hoped  to  gain 

I  shall  never  return,  but  float  onward 

'Till  I  sink  in  the  fathomless  main. 

Once  I  sailed  on  a  sea  of  rare  beauty 

Where  no  cold,  piercing  wind  ever  blew, 

Where  the  warm  sunbeams  kissed  the  blue  wavelets 

And  the  storm-clouds  were  transient  and  few ; 

But  I  longed  at  some  harbor  to  anchor 
And  float  no  more  on  the  swift  tide, 
To  find  some  bright  haven  of  pleasure 
And  there  in  contentment  abide. 
And  many  I  passed  on  my  journey, 
And  they  looked  like  the  Eden  of  old ; 
But  not  for  me  could  they  blossom 
Or  their  marvelous  wonders  unfold; 

And  I've  given  up,  long  ago,  hoping 

For  a  beautiful  sylvan  retreat 

With  the  pearls  of  affection  'round  me  strewn 

And  the  roses  of  bliss  at  my  feet ; 

For  the  contrary  winds  of  trouble 

Have  borne  my  barque  far  away 

From  the  sea,  Hope's  beautiful,  sunlit  sea, 

Where  the  shores  of  happiness  lay." 

She  paused,  and  the  angel  answered, 

In  a  voice  so  silvery  clear : 

"  O  woman !  listen  to  what  I  say 

And  wreck  not  thy  life  barque  here, 

For  out  on  this  ocean  of  darkness 

Beneath  the  storm-king's  frown, 

I  have  watched  with  emotions  of  horror 

Millions  of  ships  go  down. 

[203] 


For  they  trusted  not  in  the  light-house 

Nor  believed  in  another  shore 

Where  all  tempest-tossed,  their  barques  might  land 

So  they  sank  to  rise  no  more 

Despond  not,  O  woman!  look  beyond 

On  the  wave  a  gleam  is  shed 

From  the  light-house  whose  beams  flood  with  glory 

A  haven  that  lieth  ahead." 

She  looked  where  the  angel  pointed 

And  a  radiance  lit  up  her  face 

And  she  said :    "O  beautiful  angel, 

Where  is  that  happy  place?" 

"  Come  with  me,"  spake  the  angel, 

"  Fear  not  the  dashing  spray 

Follow  the  gleam  from  the  light-house 

It  cannot  be  far  away ; 

And  if  through  the  light  and  shadow 
Onward,  right  onward  you  steer, 
Soon  bathed  in  a  sunlight  of  glory 
The  haven  of  rest  will  appear. 
Onward  to  join  in  its  music, 
Onward  its  glories  to  share ; 
I  was  sent  from  that  beautiful  refuge, 
Was  sent  to  guide  thee,  there." 

And  calm  on  the  breast  of  the  billows 

Through  the  shades  of  the  twilight  gray, 

I  watched  with  unwavering  interest 

The  little  barque  glide  away ; 

As  mingled  with  murmuring  of  waters 

The  voice  of  the  shining  one,  said: 

"  O,  trust  in  the  strong,  faithful  light-house 

For  the  haven  that  lieth  ahead !" 


[204] 


THE  PACIFIC 

Beautiful  Pacific !    Queen  of  every  ocean ! 

Grasping  earth's  proud  continents  in  thine  outstretched  arms, 

Loud  thy  royal  music-bands,  in  their  deep  commotion, 

Swell  their  notes  of  harmony,  to  praise  thy  queenly  charms. 

Where  thy  train  of  purple  sweeps  the  far  horizon 

Fringed  with  sunset-amber,  sprinkled  o'er  with  gold, 

Where  the  Orient  rainbow  doth  thy  crown  emblazon,  • 

Monarchs  awed  before  thee,  do  thy  power  behold. 

Tread'st  there  another  where  thy  jewels  brighten 

All  thy  mystic  palace  with  its  secret  crypts? 

Readest  there  another,  the  strange  history  written 

In  whose  well  of  knowledge,  science  vainly  dips? 

With  their  snowy  turbans  sparkling  in  the  glamour 

Of  the  golden  sunshine,  surge  the  orchestra ; 

But  though  for  thy  captives,  nations  vainly  clamor, 

Deep  and  mighty  music  drowns  thy  mystery ; 

Thou  hast  hid  thy  captives  in  the  deep  recesses 

Where  no  footfall  echoes,  but  thy  regal  tread ; 

There  the  sailor's  pallid  form  his  couch  of  sea-weed  presses 

And  the  rash  explorer  makes  his  lowly  bed ; 

There  the  strong  ship's  anchor,  wound  in  tangled  cables 

Rusts  amid  her  ruin,  in  darkness  and  debris, 

Where  the  ghastly  skeleton  mocks  the  idle  fables 

Sung  in  playful  measure  by  the  blue  waves  of  the  bay. 

Queen  of  every  ocean,  beautiful  Pacific! 

Every  sportive  wave  of  thine  is  armed  a  cruel  foe, 

Terrible  in  anger,  in  kindly  mood  seraphic, 

Store-house  of  prosperity  and  charnel-house  of  woe. 

Nature's  mighty  forces  crowned  thy  jeweled  tresses, 

With  a  grander  crown  than  ever  mortal  monarch  wore, 

Thou  who  spite  thy  ravage,  each  country  more  than  blesses 

Where  thy  dark  blue  breakers  beat  against  the  shore. 


[205] 


THE  SPIRIT  REALM 

Poets  have  sung  of  the  spirit  realm 

And  sages  discoursed  in  tones  sublime 

Of  the  land  where  the  saints  and  angels  dwell, 

And  to-day  their  thoughts  flood  the  aisles  of  time. 

But  what  do  we  know  of  the  great  unknown ! 
Though  we  listen  in  rapture  to  song  and  speech, 
The  bard  and  the  prophet  went  forth  alone 
To  learn  what  they  one  day  strove  to  teach. 

What  though  their  names  honor  the  scroll  of  fame 
And  are  uttered  by  thousands  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Go  read  on  cold  sculptured  stones  the  names 
Of  those  who  strove  vainly  to  understand. 

O  problem,  solved  on  the  other  side 

By  those  who  have  passed  through  the  pearly  gate ! 

Martyrs  have  sung  of  thy  joys  and  died 

But  gave  not  a  glimpse  of  the  soul's  estate. 

Doubtless  they  comprehend  the  whole 
Of  the  mystery  we  fain  would  know, 
But  alas!   though  measureless  ages  roll 
They  return  no  more  to  this  world  below. 

Full  many  a  lofty  line  and  page 
Have  life's  earnest  workers  left  behind, 
But  oh,  for  a  glimpse  of  their  heritage 
In  the  realms  they  journeyed  forth  to  find. 


[206] 


We  may  search  for  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
We  may  study  the  stellar  worlds  on  high ; 
But  not  'till  our  eyes  close  in  endless  sleep 
Shall  we  fathom  the  things  that  our  search  defy. 

We  only  know  a  great  mystery, 
Unknown  to  us  now,  shall  be  known  some  day, 
When  with  clearer  vision  our  eyes  shall  see 
The  mists  of  uncertainty  rolled  away. 

O  revelation,  beyond  all  thought! 
When  the  old  shall  perish  before  the  new, 
How  narrow  the  knowledge  time  has  taught, 
When  mortals  shall  know  as  the  angels  do. 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME 

Backward  across  the  lapse  of  years, 

With  its  ebbing  tide  of  smiles  and  tears, 

Memory  turns  her  wistful  gaze 

And  sighs  for  the  pleasures  of  by-gone  days, 

Yearns  for  one  glimpse  through  the  crested  foam 

And  pauses  to  whisper:    "Home,  sweet  Home." 

Not  for  a  palace  does  she  sigh 
With  rare  old  painting  and  tapestry, 
Nor  an  humble  cottage  with  lowly  wall, 
Nor  the  haughty  pride  of  a  stately  hall; 
For  the  loving,  tender  grace  of  home 
Is  more  than  the  palace,  cot  or  dome. 

O  bare  were  the  walls,  though  decked  with  care 
If  affection  never  flourished  there! 
And  lonely  each  richly  furnished  room 
If  love  came  not  to  light  their  gloom, 
Powerless  the  sweetest  spot  on  earth 
If  crumbling  walls  were  its  only  worth ; 

But  the  threshold  is  worn  by  hurrying  feet 
Whose  pathways  perhaps  no  more  shall  meet, 
And  loving  voices  still  perfume  the  air 
Like  ghosts  of  dead  roses  hovering  there ; 
And  smiles  still  blend  with  the  sun-beams  bright, 
And  tears  distill  with  the  dews  of  night ; 

And  the  vines  o'er  the  moss-grown  portals  wound 
Have  thrilled  to  the  touch  of  a  loving  hand. 
And  each  tree  and  shrub  in  the  garden's  bowers 
Bears  some  time-worn  record  of  childhood's  hours ; 
And  crowned  over  all  in  its  undimmed  grace 
The  gentle  light  of  a  mother's  face. 


208 


Forward  beyond  the  wrecks  of  time 

Faith  looks  to  another  fairer  clime 

Where  no  crumbling  shrines  of  lost  happiness 

Shall  dim  the  past  with  their  bitterness, 

Where  no  vanished  hand  shall  leave  its  trace 

Or  love  repine  for  a  long  lost  face. 

Faith  turns  from  sad  Memory's  crumbling  dome 
And  sings  in  her  gladness :    "  Home,  sweet  Home !" 
Not  for  the  streets  of  transparent  gold 
Nor  the  pearly  gateways  backward  rolled 
Nor  the  tree  of  Life,  nor  the  river  fair 
Nor  the  untold  glories  gathered  there, 

Nor  the  many  mansions  ever  bright 

In  the  beautiful  realm  where  there  is  no  night ; 

Not  even  the  crown  or  the  glittering  throne 

Is  the  prize  that  lures  to  that  better  home. 

O  Heaven,  time  were  but  barren  dearth 

If  gold  and  gems  were  thine  only  worth ! 

But  brighter  than  all  those  towers  above 

Is  the  haloed  presence  of  sacred  love, 

For  those  gates  shall  echo  the  eager  feet 

And  those  courts  resound  when  the  ransomed  meet, 

And  those  mansions  ring  from  portal  to  dome 

When  the  wandering  children  are  gathered  home ; 

And  crowned  over  all  in  matchless  grace 

The  glorious  light  of  the  Saviour's  face, 

And  the  power  that  sways  that  world  of  bliss 

Is  the  power  that  makes  a  home  in  this; 

But  nevermore  shall  the  pilgrims  roam 

When  they  join  in  the  angel's  Home  sweet  Home. 


[209] 


MUSIC 

There  is  music  in  the  woodlands 
When  the  birds  their  carols  sing, 

As  they  flit  about  the  old  oaks 
Where  the  ivy  tendrils  cling. 

Warblers,  orioles  and  linnets, 

Blue-birds  with  their  brilliant  hue ; 

While  the  sky-lark  sings  his  sonnet 
In  the  sky's  ethereal  blue. 

Oh !  is  any  of  the  music 

That  the  listening  ear  has  heard 
Half  so  pure  and  sweet  and  lovely 

As  the  singing  of  a  bird? 

There  is  music  in  the  meadows 

At  the  closing  of  the  day, 
When  the  gentle  cows  are  coming, 

Slowly,  on  their  homeward  way. 

Drinking  from  the  singing  brooklet, 

Cropping  clover  in  the  dells ; 
Listen !   is  not  this  sweet  music, 

Murmuring  stream  and  tinkling  bells? 

There  is  music  in  the  forest, 

In  the  rustling  of  the  trees, 
In  the  chattering  of  the  squirrels, 

In  the  humming  of  the  bees. 

Hark !  the  tall  pine-trees  are  singing, 
Wailing  forth  their  requiem,  low; 

While  the  chipmunks  clamber  briskly 
O'er  the  mossy  logs  below. 

[210] 


There  is  music  on  the  sea  shore, 

Of  the  little  waves  at  play ; 
While  the  stately  ships  are  sailing 

O'er  the  waters  far  away. 

Wavelets  o'er  the  rocks  are  dashing. 

Say,  can  any  music  be 
Sweeter  than  the  waves'  commotion 

Or  the  singing  of  the  sea  ? 

There  is  music  in  the  rain-drops 
Pattering  forth  their  soft  refrain, 

Dancing,  spattering  on  the  shingles, 
Coursing  down  the  window-pane. 

Strange,  weird  music,  what  could  better 
The  fond  dreamer's  thought  inspire, 

Listening  to  the  tiny  voices 

Of  the  storm-king's  raindrop  choir? 

There  is  music  in  the  chiming 

Of  the  solemn  Sabbath  bells, 
Ringing  forth  to  all  a  welcome 

Over  hills  and  vales  and  dells, 

Calling  to  the  house  of  worship, 
Telling  us  the  worth  of  time, 

Praising  God  for  all  His  goodness; 
Hear  the  distant  church  bells  chime ! 

There  is  music  in  the  voices 
Of  the  children  at  their  play, 

Bird-like  songs  and  rippling  laughter 
From  the  dawn  'till  twilight  gray. 


[211] 


Is  there  any  earthly  music 

That  is  half  so  pure  and  sweet, 

As  the  children's  merry  voices 
Or  the  pattering  of  their  feet  ? 

There  is  music  in  the  voices 
Of  the  loved  ones  at  our  side, 

Those  who  tread  life's  pathway  with  us 
And  who  in  our  homes  abide. 

Sweetest  music,  yet  how  often 

In  life's  busy  bustling  day, 
We  forget  to  prize  the  singers 

'Till  their  songs  have  died  away. 

Let  us  gather  up  earth's  glories, 

Let  us  not  refuse  to  hear 
The  sweet  sounds  that  cheer  our  pathway, 

Without  which,  earth  would  be  drear. 

Let  us  listen  to  the  music, 

Treasure  it  within  the  soul; 
It  will  make  us  wiser,  better, 

While  the  months  and  years  roll. 

Let  us  notice  Heaven's  blessings, 
Thanking  God  for  what  we  share ; 

If  we  will  but  pause  to  listen 
There  is  music  everywhere. 


[212] 


FLOR  DEL  ESPIRITU  SANTO 

Loitering,  midst  the  tropic  glory  of  a  large  conservatory 
Where  the  warm  moist  air  was  heavy  with  a  cloud  of  rich 

perfume, 
I  beheld  a  strange  plant  flowering,  where  the  stately  palms  were 

towering, 
With  a  quaint,  peculiar  odor  and  an  oddly  fashioned  bloom. 

Not  the  beauty  of  its  color,  nor  the  sweetness  of  its  odor, 
Lured  me  to  the  unknown  stranger,  as  above  its  bloom  I  bent, 
But  a  tiny  dove  perched  quaintly,  with  an  air  serene  and  saintly 
In  the  heart  of  each  odd  blossom,  nestling  there  in  sweet  content. 

O'er    each    opening   bud    I    pondered,    and    in    after    moments 

wondered 

If  each  passer-by  who  saw  it,  learned  its  voiceless  ministry ; 
In  each  flower  a  revelation,  a  symbolic-like  creation 
Of  a  heart  where  sweetly  dwelleth  the  white  dove  of  purity. 

From  its   native  land  they  brought  it,  but  a   higher   wisdom 

wrought  it. 

For  a  high  and  nobler  calling,  rocks  may  preach  and  ripples  sing; 
But  who  from  its  sanctum  turning,  no  grand  lesson  from  it 

learning, 
Hears  not  eloquence  in  Nature,  gains  not  good  from  everything. 

Odd  dove  orchid,  silent  preacher,  thou  hast  come  a  living  teacher 

Of  the  rarest  human  virtue,  of  the  noblest  excellence 

How  these  thronging  thousands  need  you,  but  alas !  how  few  will 

heed  you 
And  their  hearts'  dark  raven  banish  for  the  doves  of  innocence ! 


ETHIOPIA 

Dark  was  her  brow,  and  darker 

The  depths  of  her  liquid  eyes 

And  her  hair   was   dark  as  the  blackness 

Of  the  moonless  midnight  skies, 

Her  robe  was  the  gorgeous  colors 

Of  the  Tropic's  brazen  shield 

And  costliest  incense  smoldered 

In  its  Isis  folds  concealed, 

Dawn,  noontide  and  evening  together  wove 

The  fabric  she  loved  to  wear 

And  fashioned  the  rainbow  crescent 

That  shone  in  her  midnight  hair, 

As  she  clasped  in  her  hot  embraces 

And  bore  through  the  jungle  wild 

To  her  tents  in  the  tangled  forest 

The  cursed  and  homeless  child. 

Darker  then  grew  her  visage 

And  fiercer  her  deep  eyes  shone 

As  the  smoke  from  her  pagan  altars 

Curled  over  her  ivory  throne, 

And  the  nations  quailed  before  her 

And  trembled  beneath  her  frown 

Nor  dared  to  enter  her  empire 

Or  gaze  on  her  crescent  crown, 

'Till  desolate,  feared,  forgotten, 

She  reigned  in  her  realm  alone 

With  the  cursed  and  homeless  Canaan 

Till  they  called  her,  the  Great  Unknown. 

Once  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel 

Linked  with  his  melody 

Of  the  pagan  queen  in  her  darkness 

A  golden  prophecy 


214] 


That  shone  in  the  stars  above  her 
And  gleamed  from  her  pagan  sod, — 
"  Soon,  soon  shall  proud  Ethiopia 
Stretch  forth  her  hands  unto  God." 

Dark  grew  her  brow  and  darker 
Grew  the  darkness  about  her  throne 
No  ray  pierced  the  midnight  blackness 
No  star  in  her  midnight  shone, 
The  suns  of  the  burning  Tropics 
For  centuries  scorched  her  bloom 
But  they  strove  in  vain  to  lighten 
With  one  pale  ray,  her  gloom. 
Lo !  in  the  listening  ages 
From  the  chords  where  it  slumbered  long 
In  the  light  of  its  glad  fulfillment 
Awakes  the  prophetic  song, 
'Tis  sung  by  the  stars  above  her, 
'Tis  harped  from  her  teeming  sod 
Beautiful,  dark  Ethiopia 
Stretches  her  hands  unto  God. 

Lo!    she  hath  dashed  her  idols 
And  her  pagan  altars  down, 
Robed  in  her  gorgeous  garments 
Crowned  with  her  crescent  crown 
She  stands  with  benighted  Canaan, 
She  turns  from  her  gory  sod 
She  looks  to  the  stars  above  her 
And  stretches  her  hands  unto  God. 

A  light  on  her  midnight  breaketh 
A  brightening,  growing  light 
It  darts  through  her  gloom  and  slowly 
Illumines  her  fearful  night, 


Her  scepter  was  stained  with  crimson 
Vice  lurked  in  her  smile  to  mar 
And  over  her  glorious  beauty 
Burned  Crime's  unsightly  scar, 
And  lo,  from  her  pagan  palace 
Girt  'round  with  its  burning  zone 
To  his  Father's  righteous  dwelling 
Canaan  is  coming  home. 


EDEN 

Sweet  Eden  garden  of  delight 

Abode  of  innocence, 
Alas,  that  sin  should  ever  blight 

Thy  halcyon  loveliness ! 

Amid  thy  bowers  of  fadeless  Spring 

Love  hastened  to  abide 
And  Purity  with  spotless  wing 

Dwelt  ever  at  her  side; 

In  thee,  the  wild  beast's  savage  power 

To  gentleness  was  awed 
And  in  the  cool  of  evening  hour 

Was  heard  the  voice  of  God. 

Rejoicing  angels  sang  their  psalms, 

Glad  heralds  of  thy  birth, 
And  peace  breathed  through  thy  waving  palms 

Thou  emerald  gem  of  earth ! 

Brightness  and  freshness,  love  and  peace 

And  changeless  joy  were  thine 
O  why  should  all  thy  promise  cease 

Thy  dawn  so  soon  decline! 


Lost  is  thy  dower  of  sweet  content, 

Fallen  thy 'matchless  worth, 
Soon  was  thy  day  of  glory  spent 

Thou  paradise  of  earth ! 

Sweet  Eden,  garden  of  delight ! 

Great  was  thy  sudden  fall 
But  Memory  throughout  Time's  swift  flight 

Oft  doth  thy  charms  recall. 

No  more  the  joys  of  thy  brief  reign 

To  thy  dim  aisles  belong 
Yet  doth  thy  beauty  bloom  again 

In  Earth's  immortal  song. 


WILL  THERE  BE  NO  FLOWERS  IN  HEAVEN? 

Will  there  be  no  flowers  in  heaven, 
No  soul-like  blossoms  there 
In  the  land  of  the  pure  and  lovely 
In  the  home  of  the  good  and  fair ; 
Where  all  that  is  best  and  brightest 
In  matchless  splendor  shall  shine 
And  night  cannot  lend  one  shadow 
To  darken  the  courts  divine? 

Will  there  be  no  flowers  in  heaven, 
Where  the  streets  are  paved  with  gold 
Where  a  moment  reveals  more  glory 
Than  the  ages  of  earth  unfold; 
Where  the  light  is  all  too  dazzling 
For  earth-born  eyes  to  view, 
Where  harps  are  thrilling  such  music 
As  this  world  never  knew? 

Will  there  be  no  flowers  in  heaven? 

No  flowers  by  the  river's  side? 

No  lilies  to  bathe  their  pearly  crowns 

In  the  spray  of  the  crystal  tide? 

No  violets  to  lend  their  fragrance 

To  perfume  the  balmy  air, 

No  roses  to  cling  to  the  jasper  walls 

And  vie  with  the  jewels  there? 

Will  there  be  no  flowers  in  heaven? 
Would  not  heaven  be  incomplete 
With  no  wreaths  of  immortal  .freshness 
To  cast  at  the  Saviour's  feet; 


With  no  sprays  of  living  beauty 
To  droop  o'er  the  streets  of  gold, 
With  no  gardens  to  blossom  forever 
Untouched  by  earth's  blight  and  mold? 

Ah!  there  will  be  flowers  in  heaven 

In  those  realms  of  immortal  bloom, 

But  never  as  here  shall  they  wither 

On  a  desolate,  darkened  tomb; 

We  know  not  their  forms  or  their  fragrance, 

We  know  not  their  changeless  years 

But  we  know  they  shall  outshine  the  blossoms 

That  gladden  this  vale  of  tears. 

Our  beautiful  earth-born  blossoms ! 
Can  imagination  weave? 
Can  mind  in  its  silent  chambers 
One  missing  charm  conceive, 
That  lost  in  their  earthly  glory 
Might  spring  from  a  holier  sod 
And  sprinkle  with  sweeter  incense 
The  glorious  courts  of  God? 

No;  to  our  limited  vision 

They  are  fair  as  a  seraph's  song, 

One  of  the  relics  of  Eden 

That  still  to  our  earth  belong. 

We  love  them,  oh,  who  would  chide  us 

For  loving  the  few  bright  things 

That  have  not  grown  tired  of  our  cold  bleak  world 

And  flown  on  their  soul-like  wings ! 


219] 


Beautiful  flowers  of  heaven ! 
They  shall  bloom  in  immortal  youth, 
Holding  within  their  spotless  cups 
The  bright  dew-pearls  of  truth ; 
Wafting  from  out  their  petals  fair 
The  holy  innocence  of  love, 
Made  lovelier  for  the  adorning 
Of  the  glittering  courts  above. 

Never,  never,  to  wither, 

Never  to  fade  or  blight, 

Nevermore  to  droop  in  sadness 

In  a  land  of  clouds  and  night; 

Bathed  in  eternal  sunshine, 

Nurtured  in  heavenly  soil, 

They  shall  bloom  through  unmeasured  ages 

Where  frost  cannot  come  to  spoil. 


[220] 


SABBATH  BELLS 

Chime  on,  ye  bells,  ye  Sabbath  bells, 
O'er  hill  and  vale  and  sea; 

Cease  not  thy  music  'till  the  world 
And  nations  cease  to  be! 

Chime  on,  I  love  thy  solemn  sound 

That  tells  the  story  old ; 
The  story  that  in  Heaven  begun 

And  now  on  earth  is  told ! 

O  Sabbath  day,  serene  and  calm, 
Thou  art  by  Heaven  blest! 

Thou  art  an  emblem,  peaceful  day, 
Of  an  eternal  rest! 

O  day  of  rest,  we  will  not  cease 
To  welcome  in  thy  morn; 

Until  for  us  in  brighter  worlds 
Eternal  Sabbaths  dawn! 

'Till  Heaven's  glorious  Sabbath  bells 
Shall  drown  thy  feeble  ringing; 

Until  the  voices  of  this  world 
Are  lost  in  angels'  singing. 


[221] 


THE  GALLERY  OF  THE  GREAT  ARTIST 

'Tis    not    alone    where    from    her    towers    Rome's    antique 

grandeur  flashes, 

'Tis  not  alone  where  Venice  weeps  o'er  Art's  immortal  ashes, 
Nor  yet  where  queenly  Paris  lies 
Or  grey  old  London's  smoke  shall  rise 
O'er  countless  generations; 

No  boastful  city's  narrow  walls  can  rival  to  contain  it 
Like  pagan  altars,  in  its  aisles,  they  dare  alone  profane  it, 
Among  its  pictures,  lo!  they  stand 
Until  the  Mighty  Artist's  hand 
Shall  dash  them  down  forever. 

Where  is  this  matchless  Gallery  and  who,  ah,  who  hath  seen 

it? 

Its  corner-stone,  the  nadir  is,  its  pinnacle  the  zenith. 
Its  walls  the  Orient  rainbow  crowns, 
The  Occident  its  distance  bounds, 
The  universe  its  limit. 

The  skies,  the  hills,  the  depths  He  formed,  all  Nature  His 

creation 

Whatever  human  skill  hath  done  is  but  an  imitation 
Of  the  grand  pictures  He  hath  swung 
In  heights  ethereal  and  hung 
Throughout  the  far  horizon, 

Left  by  the  fading  glare  of  time  untarnished  nor  duller, 
Retouched  with  every  passing  year  with  light  and  shade  and 

color 

Immortal  Artist,  hand  Divine, 
We  turn  from  human  skill  to  Thine 
And  none  is  great  beside  Thee! 


[222] 


Peasant  and  prince  alike  hold  the  key  to  these  Thy  treasures, 

The  magic  key  that  opens  wide  the  door  to  purest  pleasures, 

A  mind  alive  to  Nature's  lore, 

A  stretch  of  mountain,  sky  or  shore, 

An  eye  not  blind  to  beauty. 

A  heart,  to  comprehend  and  love  a  universe  infinite 
Or  look  upon  a  tiny  flower  and  feel  the  grandeur  in  it, 
A  grandeur  only  born  of  Thee, 
In  all  Thy  works  Thy  love  to  see 
All  human  love  excelling. 

This  is  the  silver  and  the  gold  of  which  is  formed  the  key 
That  opens  wide  the  golden  gates  to  Thy  great  Gallery 
Each  perfect  picture  Thou  didst  frame 
Engraven  with  Thy  deathless  name 
Illumined  with  Thy  glory. 


[223] 


THE  HARVEST 

("The  harvest  is  the  end  of  the  world;  and  the 
reapers  are  the  angels." — Matt.  13:39.) 

Fallen  upon  the  great  field  of  the  world, 
Sown  in  corruption,  germs  that  cannot  die; 
Perished  in  Africa's  dark  wilderness, 
Lost  in  Alaska's  frozen  snows  to  lie 
Forgotten  germs  of  immortality. 
Thus  to  be  out  of  sight  and  being,  hurled, 
Buried  as  Moses  was  in  tombs  unknown, 
Save  to  the  pitying  angels  who  stand  by, 
Guards  of  the  dust,  'till  from  the  o'er-arching  sky 
Shall  sound  the  voice  of  God, 
The  great,  "Come  forth !" 

Then  from  the  North 

From  frozen  sepulchers, 

And  from  the  South 

From  arid  deserts,  lo,  the  dearth  and  drought 

Of  land  and  ocean  unto  God  shall  yield, 

Tares  and  bright  grain  from  earth's  great  harvest-field. 

From  sun  to  sun 

To  curse  the  beautiful,  the  good  to  spoil, 

Walketh  the  evil  one. 

Sound  forth  your  glad  evangels, 

Ye  who  toil, 

That  golden  sheaves  may  from  the  hallowed  soil 

Be  gathered  home. 

Soon  come  the  reaper  angels, 

And  a  voice  like  many  waters,  mighty  thunderings 

Shall  sound  from  heaven,  'till  earth  awakened  rings, 


[224] 


And  all  the  hills  rejoice 

With  alleluias  and  thank-offerings 

Of  praise,  and  in  her  valleys 

Is  heard  the  sound  of  morning  angels'  wings; 

Earth  clouds  dissolve,  and  earthly  glory  waneth, 

And  the  Lord  God,  the  King  immortal  reigneth. 


THE  HEAVENLY  JERUSALEM 

Not  a  vast  realm  of  haloed  space 
Where  mellow  beams  soft  shadows  chase 
And  seas  of  loveliness  unrolled 
Gush  out  in  streams  of  liquid  gold, 
Where  forms  invisible  abide, 
Where  throngs  of  spirit-saints  reside, 
Where  unseen  choirs  glad  anthems  swell, 
Weird,  shapeless  and  intangible, 
Wrought  from  the  twilight's  filmy  threads, 
Woven  with  Mystery's  silken  shreds, 
Not  such  a  labyrinth  as  this 
Shall  be  the  goal  of  happiness. 

O  not  in  such  a  dream-like  spell 

Shall  the  redeemed  forever  dwell! 

There  is  a  City  builded  in  the  skies 

Where  glory  never  fades  or  beauty  dies, 

We  know  not  where  its  matchless  joys  unfurl, 

We  cannot  see  one  massive  gate  of  pearl ; 

But  real  as  any  citadel  of  ours 

Eternal  sunshine  bathes  its  burnished  towers, 

Her  twelve  foundations  all  of  precious  stones 

Purer  than  any  gem  in  Glory's  throne 

Shall  stand  unshaken  in  their  wondrous  plan 

When  crumbled  lie  the  mightiest  works  of  man. 


[225] 


THE  THREE  COMFORTERS 

A  little  Job  of  modern  years 

Sat  down  in  life's  Sahara 

In  ashes,  and  such  bitter  tears 

As  filled  the  pools  of  Mara, 

When  in  there  came  as  come  they  must 

Three  friends  as  wise  as  sages 

To  little  Jobs  who  sit  in  dust 

Through  all  the  troubled  ages. 

The  first  said:  "Why  do  you  repine? 

I  sing  with  sorrows  doubled, 

If  you  had  griefs  and  cares  like  mine 

Why  then  you  might  be  troubled." 

The  next  said :  "Look  around  you,  dear, 

And  see  how  others  suffer, 

Your  neighbor's  life  is  far  more  drear, 

How  many  paths  are  rougher." 

The  third  who  was  of  stoic  turn 

Remarked  in  tone  sarcastic : 

"Control  yourself  as  I,  and  learn 

To  not  be  quite  so  plastic," 

Then  little  Job  was  left  alone, 

When  from  life's  battle  scarry 

Came  one  with  gentle  look  and  tone 

Who  said:  "I  am  so  sorry." 

And  little  Job  has  lived  to  see 

One  weep,  'midst  suffering  neighbors 

And  she  who  sang  triumphantly 

Stop  singing  at  her  labors, 

And  she  of  strong  and  stoic  will 

Too  hard  and  cold  for  human, 

While  little  Job  is  growing  still 

A  sweeter,  wiser  woman. 

And  she  who  wiped  her  tears  away 

In  paths  serene  and  starry 

[aa6] 


The  only  one  of  all  to-day 

For  whom  she  is  not  sorry; 

And  little  Job  has  found  a  key 

She  will  not  lose  to-morrow 

The  heart's  gold  key  is — sympathy, 

Its  iron  door — human  sorrow, 

And  she  will  take  the  Christ-like  task 

To  comfort  all  who  suffer 

Not  even  taking  time  to  ask 

If  some  paths  are  not  rougher, 

Not  even  telling  of  her  trust 

That  walks  serene  and  starry, 

Until  her  lips  have  whispered  first 

That  golden  key— "I'm  sorry." 


[227] 


THE  ORCHARD  CALL 

Come,  'tis  the  voice  of  the  blue-bird,  come  to  the  flowery 

orchard 

In  her  bridal  garment  dressed, 
Pink  and  white  cloud-folds  swaying,  with  the  sportive  sun* 

beams  playing 

Or  frolicsome  winds  caressed; 

Come,  'tis  the  warbler  calling,  come,  'tis  the  blossoms  falling 
Promising  all  the  rest. 

Delicate  little  pledges,  white  with  their  tinted  edges 

Scented  with  faint  perfume, 
Or   rosy   as   dawning   brightness,    or   pure    in    their   waxen 

whiteness, 

Some  in  their  perfect  bloom, 
Some    to    pink    buds    just    swelling,    some    falling,    but    all 

foretelling 
A  banquet  yet  to  come. 

Come,   'tis   the   blue-bird   screaming,   up   from   the   still   air 

teeming 

With  honey  and  bumble  bees, 
Come  from  the  rush  and  riot,  come  to  the  shady  quiet 

Under  the  orchard  trees; 
Where  through  the  rainless  Summer,  each  warm  and  weary 

comer 
Is  fanned  by  the  gentle  breeze. 

Come  to  the  banquet  waiting,  of  Dame  Nature's  own  creating 

Spread  in  her  spacious  halls, 
Come  to  the  garnered  sweetness,  come  to  the  rich  repleteness 

Brightening  her  fruitful  walls, 

Come  for  the  viands  are  wasting,  'tis  the  voice  of  the  grosbeak 
tasting 

The  rosy  peach,  as  he  calls. 

[228] 


Come  to  the  glowing  cherries,  come  to  the  bright  black-berries 

Draping  the  orchard  fence, 
Come  to  the  apples  blushing,  come  to  the  nectar  flushing 

The  pear's  luxuriance; 
Apricots  ripe  and  yellow,  peaches  juicy  and  mellow 

Plums  in  their  leafy  tents. 

Come,  'tis  the  voice  of  the  blue-bird,  come  to  the  fruitful 
orchard 

Come,  'tis  the  warbler's  song, 
Come,  'tis  the  blue-jay  calling,  come,  'tis  the  grosbeak  trilling 

The  orchard  boughs  among, 
Come,  'tis  the  bees  inviting,  buzzing,  sipping,  alighting 

Midst  the  feasting,  feathered  throng. 


[229] 


SONG— BECAUSE  I  LOVE  HER  SO 

Because  I  love  her  so 

I  wander  through  these  leafy  walks  alone, 

Drawn  are  the  dewy  draperies  of  Dusk, 

A  shower  of  fragrance  by  the  wind  is  thrown, 

The  heart-throbs  of  a  mighty  surging  throng 

Beat  in  one  breast  and  wreathe  themselves  in  song, 

A  song  of  swords  that  clash,  of  foes  that  meet, 

The  right  so  bitter  and  the  wrong  so  sweet. 

Chorus 

Because  I  love  her  so 
To  win  her  scorn  I  go 
And  she  will  never  know 
It  was  because  I  loved  her  so. 

For  well,  .too  well  I  know 

That  she  will  turn  from  me  with  strange  alarm, 

She  will  not  see  my  duty  or  my  love 

That  draws  her  back  from  present  happiness 

My  love's  fond  arm  of  strong  unselfishness, 

Alas !  I  cannot  hope  that  she  will  know 

'Tis  only  just  because  I  loved  her  so ! 

Chorus 
Because  I  love  her  so,  etc., 

Because  I  love  her  so 
How  can  I  warn  her  of  her  danger  near, 
The  danger  that  so  like  a  blessing  seems 
And  oh,  her  love  is  dear! 


[230] 


Dearer  than  you  can  guess, 

But  is  it  dearer  than  her  happiness? 

My  heart  beats  fast,  my  laggard  feet  move  slow 

Because  I  love  her  so. 

Chorus 
Because  I  love  her  so,  etc., 

Because  I  love  her  so 
A  broader  love  than  narrow  selfishness, 
A  higher  and  a  deeper  love  I  see, 
Her  love  for  me,  her  present  happiness 
Weigh  these  against  her  life's  abiding  good, 
The  welfare  of  her  high  sweet  womanhood 
Outweighs  them  both ;  with  beating  heart  I  go 
To  win  her  hate  because  I  love  her  so. 

Chorus 
Because  I  love  her  so,  etc., 

Perhaps  sometime,  somewhere, 

I  shall  see  how  I  have  been  brave  and  strong, 

I,  who  so  strangely  weak  and  faltering  seem, 

And  sweet  shall  be  the  song 

Of  Love's  sweet  sacrifice,  of  Love's  return 

When  from  the  records  angels  keep  we  learn — 

To  have  been  true  and  self-forgetful  proved 

Was  better  and  sweeter  than  to  have  been  loved. 

Chorus 
Because  I  love  her  so,  etc., 


LINES  TO  THE  OCEAN 

Old  Ocean,  none  knoweth  thy  story; 

Man  cannot  thy  secrets  unfold, 
Thy  blue  waves  sing  songs  of  thy  glory 

But  where  are  thy  treasures  untold? 

Are  they  hidden  away  in  the  mosses 
And  sea- weed  that  covers  thy  bed? 

O  tell  us,  where  are  all  our  losses, 

Our  gold  and  our  gems  and  our  dead? 

O  where  are  the  loved  ones  who  perished, 
Who  found  in  thy  bosom  their  grave? 

O  where  are  the  fond  hopes  so  cherished 
That  sank  'neath  thy  cold,  cruel  wave? 

Ships  loaded  with  jewels  unnumbered 
Have  sunk  in  thy  waters  from  sight, 

While  passengers,  e'en  while  they  slumbered, 
Were  lost  in  thy  cold  cheerless  night. 

Down  deep  in  thy  depths  they  are  buried, 
No  more  on  the  earth  will  they  shine. 

Far,  far,  from  our  reach  they  are  carried 
To  rest  in  the  Ocean's  vast  mine. 

Thou  hast  them,  old  Ocean,  and  mortals 
Can  never  take  from  thee  thy  prey; 

In  thee  did  they  find  the  tomb's  portals, 
And  none  knew  the  spot  where  they  lay. 


[232] 


None  knoweth?    One  sees  where  they  slumber, 
And  greater  than  thine  is  His  will ; 

He  seeth  thy  gems  without  number, 
He  speaks  and  thy  breakers  are  still. 

There  is  One  who  hath  had  in  all  ages, 

Dominion  o'er  sea  and  o'er  land; 
He  ruleth  the  sea  when  it  rageth, 

He  holdeth  the  deep  in  his  hand. 

Roll  on,  chilly  wave  and  fierce  breaker, 
And  guard  the  vast  stores  of  thy  bed ; 

'Till  at  the  command  of  their  Maker, 
The  waters  shall  give  up  their  dead. 


[233] 


THE  BLIND  MUSICIAN 

Lightly  over  the  ivory  keys 

The  white  hands  move  in  their  measured  grace, 

But  never  a  note  the  player  sees 

Or  the  light  aglow  in  an  upturned  face. 

Thoughts  are  afloat  on  the  river  of  song 
Like  golden  boats  with  transparent  oars 
As  swiftly,  sadly,  sweetly  along 
The  winding  flood  in  its  grandeur  pours. 

There  are  ripples  now  and  then  in  the  stream 
And  cascades  that  dash  on  the  rocks  below 
But  the  oars  keep  time  to  the  one  grand  theme 
That  ever  blends  with  the  river's  flow. 

There  are  vessels  afloat  on  the  changing  tide 
That  never  were  launched  from  a  rugged  coast 
And  phantom  barques  o'er  the  cascades  glide 
That  only  the  river  of  song  can  boast ; 

And  fairy  yachts  o'er  the  ripples  play 

And  nymphs  and  naiads  and  mermaids  throng 

To  lave  in  the  cascade's  silvery  spray 

In  the  beautiful,  beautiful  river  of  song. 

Does  she  see  them  all  as  she  sits  apart, 
From  the  listening  crowd  in  the  hall  below? 
For  the  blind  have  windows  of  soul  and  heart 
That  only  God  and  the  angels  know. 

Veiled  is  the  outer  sense  of  sight 

Darkness  and  blackness  from  all  outside 

But  it  never,  never  can  be  night 

Whence  such  wondrous  streams  of  music  glide. 

[234] 


Like  the  feathered  songster's  richer  strain 
When  by  cruel  hands  deprived  of  sight, 
So  grander  tones  in  harmonic  train 
Flow  sweetly  forth  from  life's  sad  blight. 

O  blind  musician!  thy  day  is  night, 
Not  even  the  moon,  so  pensive  pale, 
Inspires  thy  notes  as  with  sheeny  light 
The  evening  song  of  the  nightingale. 

And  we  go  forth  to  the  day — the  day 
With  its  wealth  of  sunshine  broad  and  free 
O,  our  very  lives  should  glide  away 
As  strong  and  sweet  as  thy  melody! 


[235] 


ECCLESIASTES 

King  Solomon  walked  in  his  garden  fair 

'Midst  the  glory  of  tree  and  vine, 

And  beautiful  flowers  and  fruits  were  there 

And  globules  of  purple  wine, 

And  waters  that  sparkled  crystal  clear, 

And  voices  of  those  that  sing, 

And  notes  from  psaltery  and  harp  to  cheer 

The  heart  of  the  sad  old  King. 

King  Solomon,  why  are  thine  eyes  downcast 

And  thy  countenance  strangely  sad, 

Wisdom  and  riches  and  power  thou  hast 

Enough  to  make  hundreds  glad, 

Is  there  anything  more  that  the  heart  requires 

Than  wisdom  and  power  and  gold 

To  purchase  the  happiness  it  desires? 

Thy  possessions  are  manifold. 

There  are  princely  palaces  built  for  thee 

Thou  hast  royal  robes  and  a  throne 

And  thine  is  the  grandest  pageantry 

That  a  King  has  ever  known, 

With  costly  viands  and  nectar  rare 

Is  thy  regal  banquet  spread, 

And  pleasure  and  music  and  mirth  are  there 

And  a  crown  is  on  thy  head. 


[236] 


But  Solomon  thought  not  of  glory  then, 

He  had  cast  life's  best  things  aside, 

He  had  lived  for  self  like  many  men 

And  he  was  not  satisfied ; 

On  his  brow  was  the  shadow  of  discontent 

In  his  breast  was  a  heavy  pain, 

And  in  grief  and  sorrow  his  head  was  bent 

As  he  said :  "All  things  are  vain." 

Ah !  sad  old  King,  there  are  many  more 

Who  are  living  to  say  with  thee 

The  things  that  a  selfish  greed  secure 

Are  nothing  but  vanity ; 

And  that  bread  on  the  waters  of  kindness  cast 

And  the  keeping  of  God's  commands, 

After  many  days  shall  return  at  last 

Reward  to  the  toiler's  hands. 


[237] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CLOCK 

"Tick,  tick,  tick/'  for  many  a  long,  long  year 

The  old  clock  has  welcomed  the  birth  of  the  hours 

And  mourned  when  their  end  drew  near, 

And  still  it  sings  its  changeless  tune,  the  same  note  o'er  and 

o'er 

But  its  language  is  changed  for  it  tells  me  to-day 
That  I  am  a  child  no  more, 
And  the  message  is  not  an  unwelcome  one 
For  the  real  race  is  only  begun 
And  yet  the  old  clock's  settled  decree 
Wakes  the  solemn  voices  of  Memory 
And  a  sober  coloring  dims  the  light 
As  a  rainbow  of  childhood  fades  from  sight. 
Where  has  it  gone  and  when  did  it  go  ? 
The  glimmering  tints  in  that  transient  bow 
Have  melted  away  in  some  dreamland  sea 
But  its  image  still  lives  in  memory 
And  comes  and  comes  and  comes  again 
In  shapes  of  pleasure  and  shapes  of  pain ; 
For  childhood  is  not  all  gladness  and  joy 
But  purest  gold  mixed  with  base  alloy, 
And  children's  troubles  to  them  are  as  real 
As  the  greatest  trials  their  elders  feel. 

"Tick,  tick,  tick,"  hark!  the  children's  voices  float 

And  intrude  on  that  well  known  note, 

Out  in  the  sunshine  they  laugh  and  leap 

While  the  old  clock  and  I  our  vigil  keep 

O'er  the  old-time  dreamings  cold  and  dead, 

O'er  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  moments  fled, 

O'er  thoughts  of  forgotten  Summer-times, 

O'er  Winters  that  came  with  their  Christmas  chimes, 

O'er  friends  and  farewells,  o'er  smiles  and  tears 

And  the  many  phases  of  by-gone  years; 

[238] 


They  are  gone  but  the  future  shines  brightly  yet 
To  illumine  my  path  and  I  will  not  let 
The  regret  for  my  loss  undervalue  my  gain 
For  well  I  know  though  Youth's  sun  may  wane 
There  is  work  in  which  old  and  young  can  engage 
And  blessings  alike  for  youth  and  old  age. 
Childhood  like  a  rippling  brooklet  speeds 
Through  a  tangled  meadow  of  flowers  and  weeds, 
Then  swells  to  a  deeper,  broader  tide 
And  the  creek  rushes  down  the  mountain  side 
And  grows  to  a  river  broad  and  deep 
Where  the  song  of  the  creek  and  brooklet  sleep 
Swallowed  up  in  the  voice  of  a  mighty  flood, 
As  the  full  blown  rose  absorbs  the  bud, 
And  gaining  more  depth  and  sublimity 
'Till  lost  in  the  ocean — eternity. 

"Tick,  tick,  tick/'  my  old,  old  friend's  voice  is  still  clear 

Though  for  many,  many  a  year 

That  same  solemn  voice  has  warned  the  gay 

That  the  moments  were  swiftly  gliding  away, 

Has  tolled  the  refrain  of  the  funeral  knell, 

Has  echoed  the  sound  of  the  marriage  bell, 

Has  chanted  from  dawn  'till  the  shadows  creep 

And  kept  faithful  watch  when  the  house  was  asleep. 

"Tick,  tick,  tick,  be  quick,  be  quick,  be  quick 

What  is  to  be  done  must  be  done  in  haste 

There  is  not  a  single  moment  to  waste 

For  though  time  may  seem  to  drag  slowly  on 

Before  you  will  know  it,  time  will  be  gone 

And  then  comes  eternity." 

Thus  the  old  clock  seems  to  speak  to  me 

And  then  in  a  deeper  tone  repeats, 

"How  swiftly  the  little  brooklet  fleets 

Childhood,  sweet  childhood  can  come  no  more 

Look  for  the  flowers  on  the  river's  shore." 

But  a  new  thought  thrills  me,  the  old  clock's  voice. 

[239] 


GATHER  THE  WILD  FLOWERS 

Gather  the  wild  flowers  from  sunniest  slopes, 
Bring  them  to  me  with  their  wealth  of  perfume, 
Cheering  as  happiness,  charming  as  hope; 
What  varied  phases  of  joy  they  assume! 

Gather  the  wild  flowers,  a  crown  I  would  wreathe, 
Crown  thee  a  queen  on  this  gray,  mossy  stone ; 
Did  ever  princess  a  purer  air  breathe? 
Had  ever  queen  a  more  beautiful  throne? 

Gather  the  wild  flowers  beneath  the  tall  trees, 
Bright  wayside  beauties  and  gems  from  the  lake, 
Rare  floral  bells  from  the  arched  canopies 
What  lovely  garlands  their  bright  faces  make ! 

Sweet  woodland  children,  ye  bloom  for  a  day, 
Symbols  of  love  and  bright  emblems  of  trust ; 
Twilight  falls  softly,  ye  wither  away, 
Other  days  dawn,  ye  have  moldered  to  dust. 

In  the  rich  garden  a  gorgeous  array 

Coquette  with  sunbeams  through  long  Summer  hours, 

But  a  less  generous  master  have  they, 

These  rustic  treasures  are  God's  own  free  flowers, 

Gather  the  wild  flowers  for  rich  and  for  poor, 
Lowliest  cottage  or  stateliest  hall, 
Childhood  and  old  age  their  bright  smiles  allure, 
Free  as  the  sunbeams,  they  blossom  for  all. 


[240] 


Gather  the  wild  flowers,  Spring's  purest  pleasure, 
Beautiful  harvest  for  little  brown  hands, 
Singing  and  laughing  o'er  each  new-found  treasure 
Let  your  glad  voices  float  over  all  lands. 

And  when  some  Spring  day,  all  peaceful  and  still 
Calmly  I  sleep  where  the  tall  grasses  wave, 
While  the  warm  sunbeams  kiss  river  and  hill 
Gather  the  wild  flowers  to  lay  on  my  grave. 


[241 


EMPTY  NESTS 

Rocked  on  many  a  bending  bough 
Empty  nests  are  swaying  now 

In  the  Autumn  wind, 
Hanging  o'er  the  cool  cascade, 
Hidden  in  the  hazel  shade, 
Nests  that  loving  skill  has  made 

Soon  to  leave  behind. 

From  the  leafy  twigs  around 
Once  was  borne  the  joyous  sound 

Of  the  wild  bird's  voice, 
Pouring  out  his  little  soul 
In  melodious  notes  that  roll 
Merrily  from  knoll  to  knoll 

Bidding  all  rejoice. 

Long  ago  the  birds  have  flown 
And  the  little  nests  alone, 

Rocking  to  and  fro, 
Time  a  silent  mournful  strain 
While  the  wandering  winds  complain 
And  the  leaves  their  sad  refrain 

Whisper  faint  and  low. 

And  I  think  of  one  lone  nest 
Where  a  birdling  used  to  rest 

In  the  joyous  Spring, 
Now  when  Autumn  decks  the  lands 
Rocked  no  more  by  loving  hands 
Lo,  an  empty  cradle  stands 

Where  they  used  to  sing. 


[242] 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  SOUL 

I  have  done  the  best  I  could,  O  Lord ! 

Yet  my  cramped  life  writhes  in  pain 

For  the  World's  cold,  proud,  high  estimates 

Press  over  my  heart  like  leaden  weights, 

'Tis  so  little  I  can  attain, 

Is  it  nothing  worth  to  be  sweet  and  good, 

To  grasp  opportunities  fleet  and  few, 

To  broaden  my  intellect's  narrow  view, 

To  be  glad  and  earnest  and  brave  and  true? 

Is  there  nobler  womanhood 

Than  to  live  and  live  when  'twere  rest  to  die, 

To  smile  and  sing  when  I  long  to  cry  ? 

Is  it  nothing  at  all,  O  Lord, 

That  my  soul  has  striven  with  every  sin, 

Has  struggled  and  striven  alone  to  win 

Victory  over  the  rebel, — Me 

That  longs,  so  longs  for  liberty 

From  this  narrow,  cramped,  dull  sphere! 

I  have  tried  not  to  utter  one  sad  complaint 

That  a  burdened  world  could  hear, 

But  help  me,  my  Lord,  lest  at  last  I  faint 

With  the  burden  I  cannot  bear ; 

What's  the  slights  of  a  world  if  Thy  hand  doth  bless? 

Be  Thy  holy  angels  my  witnesses, 

I  have  done  the  best  I  could; 

Like  a  little  child  from  its  moment's  grief 

I  would  rest  in  Thee  'till  a  sweet  relief 

Steals  over  my  soul,  O  Lord ! 


[243] 


OUR  WALK 

Ashley  and  Edward  and  I, 
Did  you  see  we  three  go  by? 
Ashley  who  walks  like  a  little  king 
And  Edward  who  looks  at  everything? 
We  are  taking  a  walk,  good-bye,  good-bye. 
Ashley  and  Edward  and  I. 

We  scare  the  grasshoppers  out  of  the  grass 
The  frogs  will  croak  as  they  see  us  pass 
And  the  daisies  look  up  and  smile  and  bow, 
Ah !   little  snail,  we  have  found  you  now, 
Look  out  little  snail  or  you'll  bump  your  eye, 
We  are  taking  a  walk,  good-bye,  good-bye. 

And  there  is  a  cow  with  horns,  alas ! 
She  will  hook  us  sure  if  we  try  to  pass, 
I  wish  she  had  eyes  on  her  horns  and  then 
When  she  saw  us  coming  she'd  draw  them  in 
She'd  be  so  afraid  we  might  bump  her  eye, — 
She  never  looked  up !   good-bye,  good-bye. 

We  have  had  such  a  pleasant  walk  to-day 
Now  we're  going  home  by  another  way, 
We  are  hungry  and  tired  and  our  hair's  uncurled 
But  we've  seen  a  piece  of  God's  great  wide  world, 
And  there's  Mamma  making  cookies  and  pie 
For  Ashley  and  Edward  and  I. 


244 


THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT  TO  HER  FALSE  LOVER 

I  have  flown  from  you  like  a  wounded  bird 

With  a  crimson  stain  on  its  innocent  breast 

To  a  land  all  new 

To  a  sky  more  blue 

A  Summer  of  sunshine  and  flowers  and  dew, 

And  once  again  shall  my  song  be  heard 

With  its  added  undertone  of  pain 

And  my  innocent  breast  with  its  crimson  stain 

Shall  fill  and  gurgle  with  song  again. 

I  shall  not  die  of  your  cruel  dart 

I  shall  live,  I  shall  live  to  be  happy  yet 

Though  your  arrow  pierced  near  my  glad  young  heart 

I  shall  live  and  sometime  I  shall  forget; 

God  rules  and  reigns  and  is  over  all 

And  with  my  Father  I  cannot  fall, 

The  world  is  too  beautiful,  God  too  just, 

I  shall  shake  from  my  spirit  the  lower  dust. 

Nearer,  nearer  Heaven  in  this  upper  clime 

I  shall  soar  and  sing  o'er  the  wrecks  of  Time, 

And  you  in  the  groveling  dust  of  things 

Where  an  angel  would  shudder  to  trail  her  wings, 

You,  starving  your  soul  for  its  natal  food 

And  chaining  your  soul  from  its  highest  good 

May  hear  a  voice  far  above  your  aim, 

You  may  look  and  wonder  and  name  my  name 

When  you  hear  the  echo  of  some  high  strain 

That  is  born  of  triumph  o'er  sin  and  pain, 

Purer,  clearer,  more  high,  more  calm 

An  earthly  dirge  born  an  angel  psalm 

You  may  look  and  listen  and  see  me  again, 

The  little  bird  with  its  happy  heart 

That  you  pierced  one  day  with  your  cruel  dart, 

Singing  a  song  that  is  born  of  pain 

On  its  innocent  breast  no  crimson  stain. 

[245] 


MY  DUTY 

There's  one  thing  left  me  from  the  toil  and  fret 

Hopes,  plans,  ambitions,  failures  of  existence, 

One  thought,  that  over  every  life-regret 

Rises  each  morning  with  the  day-dawn's  Constance ; 

It  is  my  duty — plain  and  homely  word — 

And  yet  before  its  priceless,  hidden  beauty 

The  noblest  heart  is  stirred; 
For  from  the  lowly  unseen  glory  of 
Earth's  unrecorded  halo  of  good  deeds 
Bloom  forth  life's  highest  liberty  and  love, 

And  slaves  whose  creeds 
Of  freedom  from  all  duty  made  them  slaves 
To  their  own  evil  natures  (tyrant  masters) 
Would  not  be  bound  in  chains  from  sun  to  sun 
If  every  day's  plain  duty  had  been  done. 

Each  day  my  duty  plain  before  me  lies, 
No  shifting  scene  of  unrealities 
But  a  sweet,  high  and  noble  plan  or  way, 
To  scorn  the  wrong  and  do  the  right  to-day. 
O,  if  for  man 

Self-aggrandizement,  pleasure,  gain,  avail 
How  shall  we  fail 

To  reach  in  this  life  the  eternal  plan? 
But  if  to  choose  between  the  wrong  and  right, 
The  darkness  and  the  light, 
Then  every  little  life  within  its  scope 
Shall  every  day  have  hope. 


246] 


Draw  back  the  veil  and  look  upon  the  throng 
Of  those  who  sing  the  new,  immortal  song; 
By  faith  their  robes  washed  white  and  spotless  are, 

And  yet  of  mighty  worth  before 
God's  judgment  bar 
Stand  forth  the  deeds  that  they  have  done  on  earth. 

No  crown  that's  worth  the  winning 
But  was  won 

By  truth  and  trust, 
The  gilded  flaunting  livery  of  sinning 
Sprang  from  and  shall  return  unto  the  dust. 

And  I  remember  One  who  lived  to  bless 
Who  counted  duty  more  than  happiness, 
Who  spared  not  talents,  time,  His  own  life-blood, 
Who  went  about  this  sad  world  doing  good; 
Yes,  I  remember  One  who  spite  of  swords 
Of  clashing  arguments  and  warring  words 
To-day  is  King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords. 


[247] 


BURDEN-BEARING 

It  is  only  another  burden  to  lay  rejoicing  down 

When  we  change  earth's  weary  crosses  for  Heaven's  unfading 

crown, 
Is  it  worth  the  while  to  murmur,  to  worry,  fret  or  frown  ? 

O  for  a  cheerful  spirit  when  the  way  is  void  of  cheer ! 
O  for  a  hope  to  anchor  amid  life's  deep  of  fear! 

0  for  a  trust  that  waiteth  'till  all  things  are  made  clear ! 

1  will  take  up  my  heavy  burden  and  carry  it  all  to  Thee, 
Thou  who  alone  canst  help  me  to  bear  it  rejoicingly, 

I  can  do  all  things  through  Christ  which  strengtheneth  me. 
"As  our  conflicts,  so  our  conquests,"  is  the  motto  of  the  brave 
That  the  hand  of  Time's  engraver  doth  indelibly  engrave 
In  the  solid  stones  of  striving  that  the  path  of  progress  pave. 


ALICE 

To  the  white  stone  that  'neath  its  lily  crest 

Bears  thy  sweet  name  in  silent  marble  cut, 

I  come,  dear  sister,  now  a  transient  guest, 

To  the  dim  portals  that  forever  shut 

Your  face  from  sight,  your  hand  from  Love's  warm  hold, 

Your  gentle  voice  that  mist-like  hovers  near; 

O  Earth,  guard  well  our  treasure,  more  than  gold 

Is  the  fair  jewel  that  thou  keepest  here! 

Love  for  her  lost  comes  here  with  no  vague  quest, 

But  only  waits  the  waking  from  thy  rest. 

Lighter  her  hands  grasped  Earth's  decaying  things, 

While  stronger  grew  her  Soul's  immortal  wings; 

O  Grave,  thou  boldest  but  the  mortal  dust 

Of  her  we  loved,  whom  we  shall  ever  love, 

Safe  in  the  beauty  of  her  living  trust! 


248] 


CITY  AND  COUNTY 

I  love  the  country's  restful  quiet 
Each  sunny  hill  and  shady  glen, 

I  love  the  city's  rush  and  riot 
The  busy  haunts  of  men. 

There  is  a  charm  in  Nature's  hush 
Serene  and  thoughtful,  cool  and  sweet, 

A  fascination  in  the  rush 
Along  the  crowded  street. 

There  are  a  thousand  depths  of  thought 

In  Nature's  silent  reservoirs, 
And  countless  useful  lessons  taught 

Amid  the  city's  noise. 

My  thoughts  rise  up  in  praise  to  God 
When  I  behold  His  vast  estate, 

The  progress  of  mankind  applaud 
And  count  his  triumphs  great. 

Thus  each  sweet  wild-flower  at  my  feet 
Hath  its  own  subtle  ministry 

And  every  stranger  face  I  meet 
Its  mute  philosophy. 

And  so  where'er  my  feet  have  trod 
Pleasure  and  profit  I  can  find ; 

I  love  the  mighty  works  of  God 
And  the  great  triumphs  of  mankind. 


[249] 


THE  BURNING  BUILDING 

Unearthly  monster  that  with  fiery  eyes 

In  anger  glaring 
Mocks  sullenly  the  looks  and  hopeless  cries 

Of  deep  despairing, 
Art  thou  a  demon  from  whose  evil  heart 

Roll  fire  and  ashes 
'Till  to  destruction  every  writhing  part 

Thine  anger  dashes? 
Morn  saw  thy  walls  in  strength  and  beauty  stand 

And  rich  with  treasure, 
Eve  shall  behold  thy  smoldering  ashes  fanned 

In  fiendish  pleasure. 
With  crash  on  crash,  the  solid  hold  gives  way 

Of  beam  and  rafter 
While  the  fierce  flames  devour  their  helpless  prey 

With  mocking  laughter, 
Great  oceans  lock  the  gates  along  their  shores 

While  blazing  structures  totter 
Rivers  and  lakes  are  sealed  though  man  implores 

The  blessed  boon  of  water, 
Cool  clouds  float  overhead  but  powerless  all 

The  raindrops  beating — 
None  saw  the  mystic  writing  on  the  wall 

Till  Hope's  defeating. 
A  hurried  sound,  the  victor's  final  blow 

Resounding  loudly, 
A  death-like  hush  and  all  is  lying  low 

That  rose  so  proudly; 
Blighted  and  blasted  like  a  fragile  flower 

Consumed  e'en  as  it  flashes, 
Unconquered  foe,  recorded  is  thy  power 

In  dust  and  ashes. 
Ah !  still  the  hand  that  on  Belshazzar's  walls 


[250] 


Doomed  grandeur's  station 
In  lines  of  flame  on  human  glory  falls 

With  plain  interpretation ; 
Lo,  thus  shall  perish  with  consuming  heat 

All  earthly  treasure 
Before  whose  ashes  yet  shall  pause  the  feet 

Of  reckless  pleasure. 


OUR  GOD 

Behind  the  wheels  that  human  aim  must  move, 
Beneath  all  truths,  which  only  cannot  fall, 
Beyond  all  human  faith  and  human  love, 
Builder  and  great  inventor  of  them  all 
Is  God. 

He  sees  the  mighty  workings  of  His  plans, 
He  knows  the  hands  that  toil  with  Christian  zeal, 
With  wisdom  all  our  humble  work  He  scans, 
Our  failures,  our  successes  none  can  feel 
Like  God. 

And  where  He  sees  a  want,  a  real  need, 
In  His  great  work,  a  fair  field  left  unsown, 
He  sends  some  toiler  with  the  golden  seed, 
To  willing  hearts  His  purposes  are  shown, 
Our  God ! 


THE  BILLOW'S  ANSWER 

Not  all  unanswered  now — the  question  of  my  soul 

Asked  of  the  cliff's  age-furrowed  brow, — lost  in  the  billow's  roll- 

For  softer,  grander,  than  human  speech 

Are  the  answering  thoughts,  that  soothe  and  teach. 

Thoughts  launched  by  God,  like  sea-weed  thrown 

On  the  restless  waves  of  Life's  great  unknown; 

Cast  up  on  Life's  wave-washed  beach, 

Pure,  calm,  as  a  dove  to  its  sheltered  nest, 

My  answer  came  on  the  wave's  white  crest. 

The  question:   this  was  the  troubled  thing 

A  mourning  dove — with  a  broken  wing. 

"Tell  me,  O  billows,  that  roll  on  roll, 

Speak  more  than  all  things  to  the  human  soul ! 

Why  must  one  spirit  feel  every  dart 

That  has  thrust  the  body  or  pierced  the  heart? 

Mental  and  physical,  heart  and  brain 

Is  there  left  one  link  in  Life's  golden  chain 

That  has  not  quivered  with  human  pain?" 

The  answer:  this  was  the  heavenly  thing 
A  peaceful  dove  with  silvered  wing 
That  fluttered  down  from  the  billow's  crest 
And  crossed  its  wings  on  a  troubled  breast — 
"  Thou  art  given  the  priceless  jeweled  key, 
That  unlocks  the  great  heart  of  humanity ; 
Thou  hast  felt  their  labor,  their  strife,  their  pain, 
Their  weary  heartaches,  their  grief  and  care ; 
Their  bitter  struggles  and  dark  despair. 
May  not  one  knock  at  thy  door  in  vain ! 


[252] 


O  little  dove  with  thy  folded  wings ! 

O  billows,  that  utter  such  wondrous  things! 

Ye  are  thoughts  from  God,  let  Him  send  at  choice, 

The  ocean  thunder,  the  still  small  voice; 

If  they  speak  from  One,  who  alone  can  know 

The  height  and  the  depth  of  our  human  woe ; 

Who  has  felt  each  pang  of  our  mortal  breath, 

Sin's  serpent-fang  and  the  night  of  death, 

And  Who  o'er  the  waves  of  Life's  troubled  sea 

Calls  to  the  suffering :    "  Come  unto  Me." 


SPRING. 

Awake,  for  earth  is  waking, 
Sing,  for  all  nature  sings ; 
The  year's  bright  morning  breaking 
Calls  to  all  living  things. 

Trees,  flowers  and  birds,  'tis  dawning 
A  daybreak  bright  and  glad ; 
Arouse  sad  hearts,  'tis  morning, 
Why  should  a  soul  be  sad? 

The  clouds  their  white  robes  trailing 
Through  seas  of  blue  are  borne; 
The  winds  have  hushed  their  wailing, 
The  skies  have  ceased  to  mourn. 

And  only  tears  of  gladness 
O'erflow  heaven's  starry  eyes; 
And  smiles  undimmed  with  sadness 
Light  up  the  perfect  skies. 


[253 


HOW  PERRIM  TREATED  THE  GIRLS 

The  boys  said  Perrim  was  "  rattled." 
The  girls  said:    "  He's  awful,  oh  dear!" 
The  men  said :    "  He's  surely  half-witted." 
And  the  ladies  said :    "  Yes,  it  is  clear 
The  young  man  is  very  peculiar, 
Not  over-well  balanced,  we  fear." 
Poor  Perrim,  the  world  had  decided 
That  he  was  peculiarly  queer. 

And  why?    He  was  gifted  with  language, 

His  speeches  were  lengthy  and  loud, 

He  invented  new  words  on  occasions 

Of  which  Webster  might  have  been  proud, 

"  My  forefathers  and  my  foremothers," 

He  shouted — the  giggle-heads  bowed; 

When  he  mentioned,  "  dry  land  and  dry  water " 

There  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  crowd. 

The  young  people  gave  a  dime  social 
With  coffee  and  cake  and  ice-cream, 
And  Perrim  prepared  to  attend  it 
Being  overly  fond  of  the  theme. 
To  take  some  young  lady  to  supper, 
Ah !  this  was  the  crown  of  the  dream, 
But  alas!   very  often  things  are  not 
So  easily  done  as  they  seem. 

He  asked  a  young  lady  in  ribbons 
Who  looked  most  alluringly  sweet 
She  answered  with  modest  demeanor : 
"  So  sorry,  but  promised  to  meet 


[254] 


A  friend,  in  such  haste,"  the  girl  next  her 
Answered  him :    "  She  never  did  eat." 
Though  Perrim  was  still  bent  on  treating 
He  did  not  intend  to  retreat. 

The  next  one  thought  ice-cream  was  "horrid," 
And  laughed  showing  two  rows  of  pearls, 
And  one  had  a  terrible  headache 
And  pressed  her  gloved  hand  to  her  curls, 
But  though  they  all  openly  snubbed  him 
He  was  none  the  less  fond  of  the  girls; 

So  as  each  smiling  girl  with  her  escort 

Departed  to  bounties  below 

Perrim  pondered  and  proved  as  he  pondered 

That  his  odd  brain  at  least  was  not  slow 

As  alone,  but  with  manner  triumphant 

To  supper  he  hastened  to  go — 

"  Two  dozen  ice-creams,"  was  his  order 

And  the  maidens  who  sold  it  said :    "  Oh !" 

Then  softly  he  stepped  up  behind  her 
The  girl  who  had  been  in  such  haste 
As  she  sat  with  her  beau  at  the  table 
All  radiant  in  ribbons  and  lace, 
Her  half-eaten  dish  quick  removing 
He  set  a  full  dish  in  its  place 
And  stood  there,  her  ice-cream  devouring 
With  a  triumphant  grin  on  his  face. 

And  the  maiden  who  lived  without  eating 
And  the  one  who  was  (strange  to  recall) 
Now  eating  the  cream  she  detested 


[255] 


Brave  Perrim,  he  conquered  them  all 
'Till  with  his  ice-cream  were  provided 
Two-thirds  of  the  girls  in  the  hall. 

The  young  men  glared  angrily  at  him 

As  gaily  he  gobbled  his  theft 

And  the  girls,  why  of  course,  the  girls  giggled 

As  he  swallowed  the  cream  they  had  left, 

And  on  "the  dry  land  or  dry  water" 

Had  such  a  sight  never  been  seen 

By  his  "  forefathers  "  or  his  "  foremothers  " 

And  some  beside  Perrim  looked  green. 

The  thing  was  a  dreadful  enigma 

But  one  fact  was  plain  in  its  whirls 

The  boys  had  all  treated  Perrim 

And  Perrim  had  treated  the  girls. 


"  BE  SURE  YOUR  SIN  WILL  FIND  YOU  OUT  " 

Do  you  think,  oh  shrewd  deceiver, 
Because  your  well-laid  plan, 
For  the  death  of  a  fellow-being, 
Or  the  wreck  of  a  fellow-man, 
Was  plotted  alone  at  midnight, 
When  not  a  soul  was  about, 
And  carried  out  in  secret, 
That  it  will  not  find  you  out? 

You  have  given  it  breath  and  being, 

You  have  given  it  wings  to  fly ; 

It  has  gone  forth  a  black-winged  raven 

To  follow  you  'till  you  die. 

Like  Poe's,  it  will  knock  on  your  chamber  door, 

It  will  haunt  you  the  earth  about, 

It  will  trouble  your  peace  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Be  sure  it  will  find  you  out. 

[256] 


THE  STATUE 

She  stands  where  multitudes  assembling 
Cast  at  her  feet  their  flatteries, 

Pulseless,  amid  the  throbbing,  trembling 
Of  human  nerves  and  arteries. 

The  sculptured  marble  at  her  feet 
Is  swept  by  folds  of  shimmering  satin 

And  careless  silvery  tongues  repeat 
Her  motto's  gilded  Latin. 

Wealth  is  her  daily,  hourly  guest, 

Want  at  her  shrine  delights  to  linger; 

None  leave  her  presence  cursed  or  blessed 
By  one  fair,  faultless,  frozen  finger. 

Despair,  in  gaiety's  disguise 
From  the  dark  alleys  of  the  city 

Writhing  in  guilt's  dread  agonies 

Wakes  in  her  breast,  no  scorn,  no  pity. 

None,  common  sisterhood  may  claim 
For  sympathy  in  sorrow's  story, 

Of  all  whose  beauty  is  her  fame 
Whose  image  is  her  glory. 

Curses  and  prayers  are  one  to  her, 
Virtue  and  vice,  and  woe,  and  gladness 

Fail  in  her  stony  heart  to  stir 
Throbbings  of  joy  or  sadness. 

Fever  may  never  flush  her  cheek 
Or  pain  distort  her  chiseled  features 

And  stony  cold  the  lips  that  speak 

No  word  to  cheer  her  fellow-creatures. 

[257] 


To  her,  love,  sorrow,  want,  may  turn 
But  vain  and  useless  their  appealing ; 

Why  should  she  human  sorrow  learn 
Who  hath  no  smile  of  healing? 

O  beautiful,  proud  masterpiece 

On  whom  all  eyes  in  joy  are  gazing! 

O  queenly  form!   O  angel  face, 

Whose  symmetry  all  lips  are  praising! 

Are  there  not  some  who  pass  thee  by 
In  whose  frail  form  thy  stone  is  molded, 

Whose  prayer  is  like  a  smothered  cry 
Forever  in  their  hearts  close  folded  ? 

To  watch  the  sun  of  day  decline 

Like  thee,  with  orbs  of  stony  blindness, 

With  features  as  unmoved  as  thine, 
To  taste  the  bitter  of  unkindness  ? 

To  drink  no  more  with  trembling  lips 
The  bitter,  brimming  cup  of  anguish 

'Midst  the  dark  shades  of  life's  eclipse 
No  more  in  fear  and  dread  to  languish? 

Unmarred  by  age  or  care  to  keep 

Youth's  molded  form,  Youth's  chiseled  beauty, 
Above  no  cruel  bonds  to  weep 

That  hold  them  slave  to  love  or  duty? 

To  answer  love  with  stony  gaze, 

And  hate  with  calm  and  mute  defiance 

Unmoved,  unchanged  by  slight  or  praise 
Strong  in  a  nerveless  self-reliance? 


[258] 


O  sculptor !  well  thy  task  is  done 
Unto  the  dead  existence  giving; 

So  marvelous  that  lifeless  stone 
Becomes  the  envy  of  the  living. 

O  statue!  sinless,  heartless,  blind, 
Mock,  pity,  hate  us  who  are  human; 

No  sufferer  in  thee  may  find 

The  sympathy  and  love  of  woman. 

Better  to  know  pain's  cruel  rack, 
To  feel  life's  fiery  furnace  fever 

Than  bloodless,  nerveless,  live  and  lack 
The  heart's  high  hope,  the  soul's  endeavor. 

Better  to  feel  remorse's  pangs 
And  vain  regrets  and  dark  despairing, 

And  slander's  poison  serpent  fangs, 

And  see  earth's  wrong  and  see  it,  caring, 

Than  never  know  the  recompense 
Of  earnest  toil  and  noble  striving, 

Than  never  feel  in  holiest  sense 

The  love,  the  hope,  the  joy  of  living. 

Better  to  welcome  age  with  brow 
Grown  furrowed  in  the  path  of  duty 

Than  stand  as  thou  art  standing  now 
In  statuesque  and  useless  beauty. 

Who'd  be  a  statue  wrought  of  gold 
Worthy  the  worship  of  a  pagan, 

Glistening  with  jewels  manifold, 
Costlier  far  than  Baal  or  Dagon? 


[259] 


THE  WHITE  CRANE 

Spread  out  thy  ivory  wings,  bird  of  the  waters, 
In  shades  the  willow  flings,  some  foeman  loiters. 
Tempting  the  trout  that  swim 
Under  the  boulder  grim, 
Yet  by  the  river's  rim 
Wait  the  sly  plotters, 
Thou  in  the  distance  dim 
Bird  of  the  waters 

Far  down  the  placid  stream  fold  each  wide  pinion, 

Or  where  in  distance  screams  thy  lone  companion, 

Lonely  beside  her  nest 

In  her  white  garments  dressed, 

Stainless  her  faithful  breast, 

Or  in  the  canyon 

Midst  the  tall  ferns  to  rest 

Fold  each  wide  pinion. 

Oft  have  I  watched  thy  tall  form  by  the  river, 
Where  the  long  willows  fall  that  the  winds  shiver, 
Stately,  majestic,  lone, 
Perched  on  a  low-washed  stone 
With  mosses  overgrown, 
By  skill  so  clever 
Catching  the  fish  that  come 
Down  the  clear  river. 

Where  is  thy  lonely  nest  deep  in  seclusion? 
Where  mayst  thou  turn  to  rest  safe  from  intrusion? 
Where  is  thy  hidden  haunt, 
Secure  from  fear  or  want, 


Close  by  some  ferny  font 
Far  from  confusion, 
Shut  in  by  tree-trunks  gaunt, 
Deep  in  seclusion? 

O,  in  some  distant  marsh,  midst  the  tall  grasses 

Where  thy  cry  shrill  and  harsh  through  the  trees  passes, 

Where  the  bright  musk-flowers  bloom, 

Shedding  their  quaint  perfume, 

Flaming  the  twilight  gloom, 

No  stranger  guesses 

Where  folds  each  ivory  plume 

Midst  the  tall  grasses! 

Art  thou  a  hermit  lone,  stranger  so  stately, 
Long  to  our  stream  unknown,  coming  so  lately 
Venturing  forth  for  food 
Vainly  our  gaze  elude  ? 
Some  with  intent  most  rude 
To  harm  thee  greatly 
On  thy  calm  peace  intrude 
Stranger  so  stately. 

Back  then  lone  anchorite,  bird  of  the  waters, 

Spread  thy  broad  wings  for  flight  from  the  sky  plotters ; 

Man  has  thy  solace  sought 

In  lonely  tower  or  grot 

Living  in  silent  thought 

Till  his  tower  totters, 

Thine  is  of  grasses  wrought 

Bird  of  the  waters. 


LINES  ON  NIGHT 

I  love  the  night,  the  solemn  night, 
With  all  her  twinkling  glittering  host; 
And,  though  the  sun  may  be  more  bright, 
I  love  the  mellow  moonlight,  most. 

For  then  it  is  I  love  to  dream 
And  gaze  upon  the  spangled  sky; 
And  feel  a  happiness  supreme, 
Nor  care  to  question  why? 

For  then,  through  all  the  holy  calm, 
Thoughts,  like  soft  angel-whispers,  fall ; 
And  oft  I  seem  to  catch  the  psalm 
Sung  by  the  choir  invisible. 

Thus  then  they  often  seem  so  near 
That  but  a  veil  may  lie  between, 
And  though  their  strains  we  seem  to  hear, 
Yet  their  bright  forms  remain  unseen. 

Unseen,  when  shall  we  see  those  throngs, 
Clad  in  rich  robes  of  dawning  light, 
Whose  voiceless,  hidden,  heartfelt  songs 
Vibrate  through  all  the  chords  of  night? 

Ah!  clearer  than  they  echo  here, 
Their  pure,  angelic  breathings  rise; 
And  their  rare  notes,  so  sweet  and  clear, 
Float  o'er  the  hills  of  Paradise. 

And  shall  I  join  that  holy  choir, 
And  sing,  sometime,  that  sweet  refrain? 
Oh !  shall  I  sweep  the  living  lyre, 
Whose  strains  shall  never  pause  again? 


O  happy  angels !   Are  there  heights  and  depths 

The  human  soul  has  never  thought  to  reach, 

Anthems  and  harps  by  angel  pinions  swept; 

Thoughts,  breathed  in  Heaven,  too  intense  for  speech? 

Lift  up  your  voices,  happy  angel  band, 

Sing,  'till  the  Soul  forgets  her  loss  and  blight, 

Scatter  the  darkness  of  this  dreary  land 

'Till  a  dawn  of  glory  breaks  o'er  sorrow's  night. 


THE  MULTITUDE 

They  come  and  go,  this  world's  uncounted  throngs, 

Each  on  his  individual  aim  intent; 

They  come  and  go,  'till  in  the  gathering  shades 

For  each,  life's  little  fleeting  day  is  spent ; 

As  one  by  one  they  come,  a  mingled  host 

Born  to  earth's  heritage  of  life  and  breath, 

So  one  by  one  they  go,  a  countless  throng; 

Let  pride  and  honor  trample  underneath 

The  lowly  lot  of  poverty  and  toil, 

Death  spareth  not  the  wealthy  or  the  poor; 

But  claims  them  all, 

To  the  same  dust  they  go;  impartial  hands 

Strew  with  fresh  sunbeams  each  lone  resting  place, 

Reflected  sunsets  and  supernal  morns 

Wrap  all  alike  in  floods  of  loveliness. 


[263] 


LIFE'S  GREAT  QUESTION 
1886 

Like  a  rushing  Alpine  torrent 
Fed  by  springs  of  melting  snow, 
Pouring  downward  from  the  distance 
To  the  pasture-lands  below, 
Pours  the  tide  of  life's  great  questions. 
Seething,  foaming,  as  they  go, 
Ever  changing,  as  they  thunder 
Downward  from  the  long  ago. 
Science,  with  her  vaunted  wisdom, 
Utters  forth  her  mighty  voice ; 
And  the  clang  of  war  and  discord, 
Boasts  of  theories  their  choice; 

While  persuasion,  calm  and  gentle, 

Mingles  with  the  tumult's  roar; 

As,  adown  through  time-worn  channels, 

Life's  great  themes  and  problems  pour; 

Till  the  traveler,  faint  and  dizzy, 

Gazing  on  the  shapeless  mass, 

Looks  in  vain  for  truth's  bright  crystal 

In  the  waters  as  they  pass. 

Looks  in  vain  in  creeds  and  doctrines 

For  that  one  unsullied  stone, 

Looks  in  vain  in  church  and  temple 

For  the  truth  enshrined  alone. 

Looks  in  vain  amid  the  tumult 
For  one  attribute  of  God, 
That  has  stood  unshaken — never 
By  false  doctrine  downward  trod. 
Looks  in  vain  to  find  the  solving 
Of  the  soul's  immortal  end ; 


264] 


Looks  to  find  but  wild  confusion 
Where  the  thoughts  of  time  contend. 
What  of  creeds?  There  is  one  only 
That  shall  never  mouldering  lie, 
Like  the  fadeless  sun,  that  lonely 
Monarch  of  the  starless  sky, 

Shining  downward  through  the  ages, 
Far  above  the  torrent's  moan, 
Studied  by  the  patriarch  Moses, 
From  the  tablets  made  of  stone ; 
And  rehearsed  in  song  and  story 
In  the  life  of  Christ,  the  Lord, 
With  the  rays  of  Heaven-born  glory 
In  each  loving  deed  and  word. 
What  if  temples,  grand  cathedrals, 
Lift  to  Heaven  their  domes  and  spires 
And  the  swell  of  thrilling  anthems 
Rolls  from  grand  imposing  choirs  ? 

Yet  outside  their  sacred  precincts, 
Where  no  listening  crowds  attend, 
Richer,  grander,  holier  praises 
To  Jehovah's  throne  ascend. 
Not  alone  to  human  temples 
Do  His  worshipers  repair, 
'Tis  His  children's  sanctuary 
Wheresoe'er  they  bow  in  prayer; 
In  the  field,  the  plain,  the  forest, 
In  the  city's  crowding  throng, 
Hearts  have  offered  prayers  unuttered 
Souls  have  breathed  immortal  song. 


265] 


Look  above  thee;  golden  turrets, 
Perish  in  the  distant  blue; 
Look  below  thee ;  flowery  carpets 
Spread  the  floor  of  nature  through ; 
And  those  roofs  of  palest  azure, 
And  those  floors,  before,  behind, 
Spreading  out  in  matchless  grandeur, 
Hold  and  cover  all  mankind. 
This  thy  temple-home,  erected 
By  an  Architect  divine; 
'Tis  thy  Father's  sanctuary 
And  thy  Father's  house  is  thine. 

What  is  God?    A  cruel  tyrant 
Ruling  with  a  rod  of  iron, 
Armed  with  stern,  unyielding  justice, 
Or  in  kindlier  mood  benign, 
Staying  whom  he  will,  or  blessing 
By  an  unexplained  decree; 
Punishing  one  man's  transgressing 
While  another  wanders  free? 
God,  who  made  the  skies  above  us, 
God,  who  made  the  earth  so  fair, 
God,  whose  loving  kindness  shineth 
In  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  air. 

What  O  mighty  current  rolling 

To  eternity's  great  sea 

Are  thy  wild  conflicting  murmurs 

Of  the  all-wise  Deity? 

Let  false  science,  in  her  blindness, 

Lead  her  fools  to  black. despair; 


266 


Lo,  thy  Father's  loving  kindness 
Falleth  'round  thee,  everywhere. 
Read  in  earth's  frail  starry  blossoms 
Or  those  higher  stars  above, 
God  is  strength  and  power  and  wisdom, 
God  is  justice,  mercy,  love. 

Soul  of  mine,  what  is  thy  portion? 
Oh  ye  roaring  floods  be  still. 
God,  the  loving,  all-wise  Father, 
Shall  His  promises  fulfill. 
Thine  to  live  while  temples  crumble, 
Thine  to  live  while  creeds  decay, 
Thine  to  live  while  worlds  dissolving 
Melt  in  flames  or  dust  away. 
Thine  to  sing  o'er  death  victorious, 
While  death's  vanquished  armies  rage; 
Thine  to  claim  in  joy  and  gladness 
An  immortal  heritage. 


MY  ROSES 

They  bloomed  in  such  rich  perfectness, 

My  artist's  brush  or  poet's  pen 

Had  hoped  to  only  half  confess 

Their  novelty,  waxen  richness,  when 

I  dreamed  a  dream  of  sweet  completeness, 

Of  one  who  lived  the  roses'  sweetness. 


[267] 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  PAST 

From  the  past,  the  beautiful  misty  past, 

Float  faint,  sweet  melodies, 
Strains  that  were  all  too  dear  to  last 
But  whose  hidden  beauty  we  but  half  guessed 
As  they  flitted  away  from  us  swift  and  fast, 

Linked  with  loved  memories. 

But  now  as  we  gaze  on  those  far  off  shores 

They  seem  clad  in  robes  sublime, 
And  we  see  where  we  dropped  our  restless  oars 
Where  the  ripple  plays  and  the  cataract  roars, 
And  the  tide  of  golden  moments  pours 

Down  the  silent  river  of  time. 

Those  scenes  are  past  and  those  days  have  fled 

With  their  weight  of  joy  or  woe, 
But  sometimes  they  come  like  a  noiseless  tread, 
Like  the  footsteps  of  nations,  long  since  dead; 
And  a  gleam  of  mystical  light  is  shed 

O'er  the  scenes  of  the  long  ago. 

And  faces  rise  from  the  light  and  gloom, 

Faces  we  used  to  see 

Ere  we  changed,  alas !  it  was  all  too  soon, 
The  morning  dew  for  the  heat  of  noon, 
And  have  mingled  with   Life's   ever-changing  tune 

And  sailed  on  her  troubled  sea. 

But  we  look  ahead  to  the  far  off  skies, 

For  the  years  are  flying  fast, 

And  we  know  that  the  present  that  round  us  lies 
Ere  the  light  of  a  few  more  moments  dies, 
Will  with  many  loved  and  severed  ties 

Fade  into  the  mist-veiled  past. 

[268] 


The  Summer  is  waning  to  Autumn  time 

And  Winter  will  soon  be  here, 
Let  us  lay  out  our  work  in  Love's  design, 
That  golden  deeds  may  our  pathway  line, 
And  leave  in  the  past  a  jeweled  mine; 

Ere  we  welcome  another  year. 

And  then  when  we  reach  our  journey's  close, 

The  last  look,  backward  cast, 
Will  rest  on  a  scene  of  sweet  repose 
Where  a  peaceful  river  of  good  deeds  flows ; 
And  no  cloud  of  darkness  can  interpose 

To  mar  our  beautiful  past. 


HEARTACHE 

Oh  that  I  might  forget, 

That  my  heart  so  strangely  sore 
Might  cover  with  flowers  its  grave  of  regret, 

And  remember  it  nevermore. 
But  the  sunbeam  brightens  the  snow-covered  mound 

And  thaws  not  its  icy  heart, 
While  we  know  the  dead  lie  underground, 

Its  mockery  makes  us  start. 

I  can  smile  for  my  heart  is  proud, 

I  can  laugh  though  my  blood  runs  cold 
As  the  icy  depths  of  the  snowy  shroud 

Where  glimmers  the  sunbeam's  gold; 
I  can  pray,  thank  God,  I  can  pray 

From  the  depths  of  my  dark  distress; 
I  can  trust,  'till  God's  sunshine  melts  away, 

The  frozen  anguish  and  bitterness. 


[269] 


SWAN  RIVER  DAISIES 

To  thy  banks,  Australian  River, 
Thy  frail  flowers  our  fancies  bring; 
Gifts  will  whisper  of  the  giver, 
As  the  streamlet  of  the  spring. 

Far  across  the  briny  ocean 
How  our  fancies  flit  along, 
'Till  they  join  thy  river  motion, 
Mingle  with  thy  river  song. 

Rest  amid  the  grasses  growing 
In  the  shadows,  green  and  rank; 
Revel  midst  the  daisies  blowing 
In  the  sunshine  on  thy  bank. 

While  the  swans,  their  proud  necks  arching, 
And  the  shadows  in  their  eyes, 
Dream  not  of  the  desert's  parching 
Underneath  those  same  blue  skies. 

Daisies  on  the  artist's  canvas, 
Daisies  in  the  poet's  lay, 
Daisies,  they  have  left  their  impression 
All  along  the  dusty  way. 

They  are  trodden  in  the  highway 
By  the  busy,  thoughtless  throng, 
They  are  gathered  in  the  byway; 
Woven  into  scene  and  song. 

Dainty  daisies  of  Australia 
Springing  from  a  royal  line, 
Each  in  blue  or  white  regalia, 
Spun  from  fibers,  silken  fine. 

[270] 


Ye  have  caught  the  sapphire  color, 
In  each  little  silken  whorl, 
Of  your  native  skies,  nor  duller 
Flecked  with  clouds  of  purest  pearl. 

Ox-eye  daisies  on  the  prairie, 
Garden  daisies,  old  in  song; 
Daisies  coarse  and  daisies  airy 
To  this  royal  line  belong. 

Theirs  is  not  a  lordly  title 
But  a  changeless,  fadeless  name; 
Virtue's  just,  deserved  requital; 
Man  might  covet  such  a  fame. 

Hands  have  torn  the  Alpine  gentian 
From  its  glacier  home  away, 
Gathered  gems,  'twere  vain  to  mention, 
From  the  Tropics  rich  array. 

Fuchsias  from  Brazilian  ranges, 
Callas  from  the  storied  Nile, 
Each  its  native  climate  changes, 
River,  range,  or  ocean  isle. 

But  to  every  land  they  carry 
Facts,  where  fancy's  eyes  can  see 
Some  lone  haunt  of  fern  or  fairy 
Where  they  flourished,  wild  and  free; 

So  they  make  a  pretty  day  dream 
That  their  bursting  buds  embloom, 
Ever  wrought  of  shade  and  sunbeam, 
Never  touched  by  glare  or  gloom. 


Thus  thy  flowers,  Australian  River, 
To  our  distant  land  have  come; 
Breathing  subtly  forever, 
Fancies  of  their  native  home. 


THE  GRAVE 

Ships,  grand  as  ever  fought  the  ocean  waves 
And,  conquering,  wrought  the  welfare  of  mankind, 
Have  made  the  depths,  eternity,  their  graves 
And  left,  at  best,  but  memories  behind. 

The  tidings,  they  have  winged,  from  sea  and  land, 
Like  carrier  doves,  to  every  nation's  door; 
The  flames  of  progress,  that  their  pinions  fanned, 
To  leap  the  dread  abyss  from  shore  to  shore. 

And  dost  thou  scorn,  oh,  proudest  barque,  to  lie 
Where  these  have  lain  while  cycles  came  and  fled? 
And  dost  thou  dread,  oh  proudest  heart,  to  die? 
The  great,  the  good,  the  beautiful  are  dead. 

The  depths,  they  bridged  for  countless  hosts  to  cross, 
With  wealth  for  heart  and  body;  soul  and  mind 
Lament,  in  dirges  deep,  their  awful  loss ; 
Ungrateful  and  forgetful  is  mankind. 

When  breaks  the  storm  that  may  not  be  subdued, 
'Till  sinks  thy  barque,  where  millions  more  lie  wrecked; 
Why  shouldst  thou  fear  the  depth's  dark  solitude 
Whose  Builder  was  creation's  Architect? 

Quaking  above  the  fathomless  abyss, 
Midnight  around,  above,  the  tempest's  frown; 
One  star  illumines  still,  thy  dark  distress, 
Since  here  the  Son  of  God  himself  went  down. 

[272] 


HARMONY 

Too  late  they  met — for  youth  had  passed  away, 

Met  where  earth  thrilled  with  love-notes  rich  and  strong 

And  Nature,  like  a  little  child  at  play 

Whose  innocence  rebuked  a  thought  of  wrong, 

Sang  snatches  of  sweet  song  and  laughed  between ; 

The  softest  harmony  of  song  and  scene. 

Yet  not  too  late  they  met  to  learn  that  each 
Loved  the  fair  landscape  with  a  poet's  love 
And  not  too  late  to  understand  the  speech 
Interpreted  by  both  from  stream  and  grove, 
And  not  too  late  to  learn  what  souls  may  miss, 
In  life's  entanglement  of  Heavenly  bliss. 

Perish  the  thought  that  hath  one  shade  of  sin, 
Let  angels  consecrate  their  mutual  tastes; 
Locked  is  the  gate,  they  may  not  enter  in 
To  traverse  side  by  side  life's  desert  wastes ; 
Strong  is  that  gate  as  God's  immortal  word, 
And  over  it  hangs  Mercy's  flaming  sword. 

So  consecrate  to  friendship  all  the  streams 
That  flow  harmoniously  through  realms  of  mind ; 
Friendship  as  pure  and  true  as  angel  dreams, 
To  waken  when  all  night  is  left  behind 
Waken  to  know, — to  those  who  pray  and  wait 
Nothing  that's  sinless  ever  comes  too  late. 


[273] 


MAN  BY  WISDOM  CANNOT  FIND  OUT  GOD 

Ye  who  ascend  to  the  celestial  heavens 
To  study  planets,  stars  and  asteroids 
And  view  the  wonders  of  the  stellar  worlds, 
Countless  in  number,  hurrying  through  space, 
Planned  in  such  perfect  mechanism,  that  not  one 
Swerves  from  the  course,  in  which  some  all-wise  power 
Has  destined  it  to  move,  setting  a  bound 
Over  which  all  the  powers  and  arguments  of  man 
Cannot  compel  it  to  revolve. 

And  ye  who  delve 

After  the  hidden  treasures  of  the  earth 
To  resurrect  from  stores  of  ages  dead 
And  bring  to  light  the  history  of  the  past, 
The  strange  formation  of  the  solid  rock, 
Vegetation  submerged  long  centuries  ago, 
Metals  and  gems,  sands  and  the  compact  clay, 
All  furnishing  new  scope  for  thought, 
New  truths  for  science  to  delineate 
And  new  surmises,  questionings  and  doubts; 
Astronomers,  geologists  and  all  who  explore 
The  vast  cathedral  of  this  universe, 
Whose  vaulted  roof,  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
Clear  azure,  spangled  o'er  with  gold  by  night 
And  oft  diversified  with  clouds  by  day, 
Spreads  out  a  beauteous  covering  for  earth 
Whose  corridors  and  galleries  and  aisles 
With  emerald  carpetings,  broidered  with  flowers 
And  leafy  draperies  with  silvery  ribbons 
Winding  in  and  out; 


274] 


And  the  great  basins, 
Fountains,  cisterns  and  vast  reservoirs 
Supplying  man  with  bounteous  blessings 

And  delights; 

The  wind  and  waves 
Sweet  instruments  of  music 
With  all  their  delicate,  vibrating  chords 
Sounding  from  shore  to  shore,  accompanied  by 
Thousands  of  voices  from  the  sea  and  land, 
And  all  in  matchless  harmony  composing 
The  choir  of  Nature's  temple  and  her  God. 

You  who  can  analyze  the  various  parts 
Of  this  great  structure,  with  its  countless  domes 
Towering  beyond  where  human  thought  has  reached, 
May  boast  to  comprehend  the  wondrous  wisdom 
The  great  Architect  displays  in  this,  His  handiwork. 

To  me 

The  smallest  seed  contains  enough 
To  make  man's  great  devices  seem  but  small, 
Though  to  the  casual  observer  it  might  seem 
Of  small  importance,  a  mere  lifeless  thing, 
Possessing  neither  beauty,  grace  or  worth ; 
But  place  it  where  it  can  draw  sustenance 
From  the  rich  soil,  the  dews,  refreshing  showers 
And  the  warm  sunbeams ; 

All  is  still; 

No  faint  suggestion  of  a  change  disturbs  the  spot — 
But  go  thy  way;  when  a  few  days  or  weeks  have  passed- 

behold, 

From  that  same  spot,  two  tiny  leaflets  peep  and  seem  to  say, 
"Have  we  not  earned  a  place  in  which  to  grow?" 


[275] 


Weeks  pass  away,  the  tiny  embryo 
Little  by  little  increases  and  expands 
To  a  symmetrical  and  beauteous  plant, 
Budding  and  blossoming  and  throwing  out 
Such  perfume  as  no  chemist  could  compound; 
A  marvelous  work  and  silently  performed, 
Thus  teaching  us  that  oft  most  grand  results 
May  be  obtained  by  quiet  action, 
Silent  and  sublime. 

Who  can  form  such  a  gem?    Can  mortal  hands? 

Let  science  delve  and  analyze,  create  and  shape 

The  exact  image  of  the  little  seed; 

Plant  it  and  wait  and  wait  'till  centuries  have  passed, — 

She  waits  in  vain,  sunbeams  and  showers  combined 

Can  never  coax  to  life  a  lifeless  thing; 

And  thus  we  learn  that  some  creating  power 

Not  in  the  reach  of  man,  has  touched  to  life  and  action 

What  without,  were  dead. 

Man  cannot  comprehend  this  wondrous  power, 

He  can  but  catch  a  faint  idea  of  its  magnitude 

Beyond  the  reach  of  science  and  of  thought, 

Beyond  the  limit  of  the  mortal  mind 

It  reaches  out,  omnipotent,  eternal  and  all-wise 

Search  for  that  power,  whose  stamp  is  on  the  earth 

Setting  in  motion  every  living  thing; 

Waking  to  life  the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  trees, 

And  giving  being  unto  man  and  beast; 

Then  you  may  realize  the  awful  truth, 

That  man  by  wisdom  cannot  find  out  God. 


[276] 


LIFE'S  UNCERTAINTY 

These  zigzag  paths  we  travel 

May  change,  we  know  not  when, 
Diverging  far  and  farther, 

To  never  meet  again. 
We  trust  no  freak  of  fortune, 

Fear  no  decree  of  fate; 
We  know  God's  chosen  pathways 

Lead  all  to  Heaven's  gate. 

The  years  may  crowd  around  us, 

With  faces  strange -and  rude, 
'Till  time  has  come  between  us, 

As  some  great  multitude; 
Yet  we  who  wait  with  patience, 

In  each  appointed  place, 
When  the  years  have  gone,  shall  stand 

Immortal,  face  to  face. 

These  troubled  tossing  breakers, 

Ah!  who  can  tell  their  power? 
They  sink  the  iron-clad  vessel, 

They  float  the  frailest  flower. 
We  know  not  who  shall  longest 

Their  ceaseless  strife  endure, 
The  weakest  or  the  strongest 

No  safe  return  insure. 

So  changing  and  uncertain 

Are  all  life's  winding  ways, 
That,  lost  in  contemplation, 

My  soul  bows  down  and  prays : 
"O  God,  amid  the  mazes 

Of  life's  uncertainty, 
Teach  us  to  love  each  other, 

And  leave  the  rest  to  Thee !" 

[277] 


THE  SOWER'S  SONG 

Shall  I  sow  the  seeds  of  the  briers  and  weeds 
O'er  the  fertile  fields  and  the  grassy  meads? 
Oh,  the  thorn  and  the  tare  are  everywhere ! 
The  world  hath  enough  of  weeds. 

Shall  I  scatter  the  germs  of  their  noxious  forms 
Where  the  beautiful  blossoms  bloom? 
Shall  I  tend  them  with  care,  'till  they  flourish  there, 
Must  the  sweet  flowers  make  them  room? 

Oh,  the  weeds  grow  rank  on  the  river  bank, 
And  the  hills  are  o'ergrown  with  weeds 
By  breeze  and  blast,  they  are  sown  broadcast ! 
Why  should  I  sow  their  seeds? 

No  toilsome  care  must  their  soil  prepare, 
They  will  spring  up  and  flourish,  anywhere ; 
By  the  stagnant  fen,  in  the  lonely  glen, 
By  dusty  roads  and  abodes  of  men. 

But  the  blossoms  sweet  and  the  golden  wheat, 
Blighted  by  cold  and  withered  by  heat, 
Busiest  hands  their  seed  must  sow ; 
Patience  and  labor  must  bid  them  grow. 

Shall  I  cage  the  bird,  that  your  dread  has  stirred, 
By  his  dismal  cry  through  the  darkness  heard 
Or  the  vulture,  roaming  his  prey  to  seek, 
With  gory  talons  and  bloody  beak? 

Or  the  croaking  thing,  with  the  ebony  wing, 
To  the  sunniest  spot  in  your  home  bring? 
Or  prison  the  cheer,  for  your  tuneful  ear, 
Of  the  little  bird  with  the  song  to  sing? 

[278] 


Is  crime's  dark  brood  the  chosen  food 
For  the  intellects  of  the  great  and  good  ? 
Will  the  wise  deride  and  cast  aside 
Life's  better  things  in  a  search  for  blood? 

Shall  I  scatter  thoughts  full  of  dismal  doubts, 
And  hopeless  pinings  and  dark  distrust, 
To  fall  apart,  in  a  human  heart, 
And  spring  like  weeds  from  its  damp  and  dust? 

Or  shall  I  cull  from  the  beautiful, 
The  budding  hope  and  the  tuneful  truth ; 
Bright  flowers  to  spring,  sweet  birds  to  sing, 
In  the  failing  heart,  immortal  youth? 

Oh,  the  thorn  and  the  tare  are  everywhere ! 
The  world  hath  enough  of  doubt  and  woe ; 
By  breeze  and  blast,  they  are  sown  broadcast 
Midst  the  golden  germs  that  the  sowers  sow. 


HOLLYHOCKS 

O  the  hollyhocks  on  their  leafy  stalks, 
O  the  busy,  buzzing  of  bumble  bees, 
O  the  rollicking  ripple  that  blithely  talks 
To  the  merry  robin  that  gaily  rocks 
Her  babies  up  in  the  alder  trees! 


[279] 


MY  POEM 

If  I  could  write  it  all  just  as  I  feel  it — 
My  inner  life,  my  real  though  hidden  self — 
I  think  no  idle  hand  could  chance  unseal  it 
And  lay  it  by  unread  upon  the  shelf. 

'Twould  be  the  sweetest,  saddest,  grandest  poem 
That  ever  dropped  in  crystals,  gem  by  gem 
'Twould  sound  to  every  life  a  living  poem 
Written  in  heart-throbs  from  a  poet's  pen. 

'Twould  be  the  highest  love  in  power  and  pathos, 
The  tenderest  sympathies,  the  sweetest  thrills 
The  truest,  highest  sentiments  and  all  those 
High  outlooks  from  the  soul's  eternal  hills. 

'Twould  hold  the  world  in  its  mad  rush  to  grovel 
In  competition,  avarice  and  strife 
Of  party  factions,  from  their  low  mind  hovel 
They'd  see  the  heaven-high  palaces  of  life. 

Where  through  still  nights  God  speaks  and  wings  of  angels 
Temper  the  glory  from  our  dazzled  eyes, 
Where  human  sorrows  change  to  sweet  evangels 
That  make  more  gentle  all  that  in  man  lies. 

Oh,  it  would  be  the  battle  hymn  of  nations ; 
This  poem,  where'er  sorrow  has  its  place; 
'Twould  thrill  with  courage  in  its  strong  vibrations 
Of  a  life's  anguish  borne  with  patient  grace ! 


[280] 


THE  SCEPTER  THE  POPPY  YIELDS 

The  poppy  flaunting  her  sheeny  silks 
Through  the  summer  day  in  the  sun, 

Tells  me  of  aught 

Of  good  she  hath  wrought, 
What  evil  hath  she  done? 

She  is  only  a  flower  that  the  children  love 
For  the  charm  of  her  gorgeous  dye ; 

Yet  stronger  powers 

Than  these  wills  of  ours 
Latent  within  her  lie. 

In  the  darkened  room  on  the  rack  of  pain 

The  wakeful  sufferer  weeps; 

A  portion  the  poppy  yields  to  lull 
The  tortured  brain  of  the  sorrowful 

And  the  sufferer  sweetly  sleeps. 

The  opium  fiend  now  haggard  and  weak, 
Once  hopeful  and  strong  and  brave; 
The  poppy  has  woven  a  spell  to  entice 
From  earnest  endeavor  to  sloth  and  vice 
While  she  lures  to  his  death  her  slave. 

And  this  is  the  scepter  the  poppy  wields 
For  evil  or  for  good ; 

Is  your  influence  less 

To  curse  or  bless 
Oh,  beautiful  womanhood? 

You  may  weave  a  spell  of  kindness  and  love 
O'er  a  world  of  strife  and  woe ; 

You  may  lure  the  race 

To  a  higher  place — 
Or  a  lower,  where  you  grow. 


OCTOBER  MUSINGS 

I  sit  beside  my  window, 

This  dull  October  day, 

And  watch  the  crowd  that  is  passing 

Below  in  the  busy  street; 

I  wonder  where  they  are  going 

And  why  they  pass  this  way? 

The  young  and  the  old,  the  high  and  the  low, 

The  rich  and  the  poor  all  meet; 

Some  arrayed  in  silks  and  satins, 

Graceful  forms  and  faces  fair; 

And  some  are  dirty  and  ragged, 

And  others  look  worn  with  care. 

Some  are  God's  children  with  souls  made  white, 

And  hearts  that  are  free  from  sin, 

And  our  Heavenly  Father  knoweth  His  own, 

For  He  see'th  the  heart  within; 

And  some  are  hard  and  cruel, 

Some  wicked  and  steeped  in  shame; 

But  was  it  not  for  sinners 

To  earth  the  Saviour  came? 

He  came  to  lift  them  out  of  the  mire, 

To  lead  them  nearer  God; 

It  was  for  the  groveling  worms  of  earth 

That  His  thorny  path  He  trod. 

They  are  going.   Where  are  they  going? 

They  are  passing  the  livelong  day; 

Many  are  in  destruction's  road 

But  few  in  the  narrow  way. 

They  are  going  all  from  the  scenes  of  earth 

To  rest  in  a  silent  bed ; 

For  no  crowds  are  seen  and  no  sounds  are  heard 

In  the  city  of  the  dead. 

Come,  go  with  me  to  the  lone  graveyard 

Where  so  many  are  silently  sleeping; 

[282] 


No  sound  of  childish  laughter  is  heard 

And  here,  no  sighing  or  weeping. 

No  sound  is  heard  but  the  requiem  low 

Of  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops  wailing, 

And  far  away  on  the  stormy  bay 

The  white-sailed  ships  are  sailing. 

How  changed  the  scene,  how  lone  the  place, 

From  the  street,  with  its  bustle  and  noise ; 

But  they  all  will  soon  be  called  to  go 

And  leave  their  gilded  toys. 

O  God !  I  see  naught  but  change  and  decay, 

One  hour  in  the  sunlight's  glory; 

The  shadow  conies,  and  they  pass  away 

Leaving  nothing  to  tell  their  story ; 

And  the  withered  leaves  of  the  Autumn  time 

That  rustle  in  every  blast 

Seem  chanting  a  sad  funeral  dirge 

For  the  hours  that  could  not  last; 

But  God  knoweth  best ;  His  children  all 

Must  pass  Death's  chilly  portal, 

But  bright  through  the  gloom  of  the  silent  tomb 

Shines  the  glory  of  the  immortal; 

And  the  vanished  hours  are  like  heavenly  flowers 

To  an  earthly  garden  given, 

To  bud  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise, 

But  gathered  to  bloom  in  Heaven. 


[283] 


THE  SEASIDE  CEMETERY 

This  is  no  silent  city  of  the  dead, 

No  soundless  crypt; 
No  charnel-house  (whence  light  and  song  have  fled) 

For  gloom  equipped. 
No  hidden,  darksome,  life-deserted  spot 

Of  bloom  bereft. 

Where  silent  desolation,  changing  not, 

Alone  is  left. 
A  city,  looking  from  its  sloping  hill 

Toward  the  sea; 
A  picture,  blooming  fresh  and  lovely 

In  memory. 
Here  droop  bright  fuchsias  in  a  glowing  hedge 

Of  brightness  set, 
And  blue  lobelias  fringe  the  border's  edge 

With  dewdrops  wet; 
While  pelargoniums,  with  deep  color  stained 

Make  glad  the  ground; 
And  the  green  ivy  clambers,  unrestrained 

O'er  slab  and  mound, 
And  queenly  roses  and  rich  purple  blooms 

In  freshness  glow, 
Dropping  their  fading  petals  on  the  tombs 

That  sleep  below. 
The  white  fogs  hover  o'er  with  silent  wings, 

Like  guardian  hosts 
When  early  morn  her  misty  mantle  flings 

Along  the  coasts; 


[284] 


And  the  glad  sunbeams  fall,  like  melted  gold 

In  shining  pools ; 
While  the  hot  noontide's  burning,  brazen  scroll 

The  Seabreeze  cools; 
And  over  all  a  deep  and  mighty  surge 

Forever  swells, 
The  wondrous  ocean's  ceaseless,  solemn  dirge 

Time  never  quells; 
As  if  the  sea's  great  palpitating  heart 

Remembered  yet, 
The  silent  dwellers,  as  the  years  depart 

And  friends  forget. 
Were  it  not  beautiful  to  slumber  here 

Not  all  unsung; 
But  chanted  of  by  one  forever  near 

In  Nature's  tongue? 
Sleep,  peaceful  dwellers,  by  the  lovely  shore; 

Though  life  hath  fled, 
The  throbbing,  solemn  ocean  nevermore 

Forgets  the  dead. 


A  WRECKED  LIFE 

"They  blame  us  most  when  we  are  least  to  blame, 

And  they  with  souls  made  black  with  hate  and  shame, 

Had  angels  one  mistake  to  mourn  with  them, 

Would  stand  the  readiest  judges  to  condemn. 

"O  Earth,  have  pity  when  thy  blasts  have  wrecked, 

The  purest  lily  that  thy  gardens  decked !" 

(It  was  a  woman's  cry;  she  stood  alone, 

Whom  fortune,  beauty,  love  and  friends  had  known.) 


[285] 


CITIES  IN  THE  SAND.. 

While  the  sun  is  gilding 
Sea  and  sky  and  land, 

Little  hands  are  building 
Cities  in  the  sand. 

Spire  and  dome  and  column, 
Rising  high  and  grand, 

Churches  still  and  solemn 
Built  of  granite  sand. 

Shining  streets  and  portals 
Wrought  by  brain  and  hand, 

The  conceits  of  mortals 
Builded  in  the  sand. 

Boldly  o'er  the  gravel 

Come  a  noisy  band, 
Ah !   They  soon  will  level 

Cities  in  the  sand. 

Tossing,  roaring,  tumbling, 
Laughing,  sporting  and 

Washing  down  and  crumbling 
Cities  in  the  sand. 

Where  are  all  the  toilers  ? 

Where  are  they  who  planned 
For  the  sportive  spoilers 

Cities  in  the  sand? 


[286 


Gone   from   beach   and   boulder, 
Gone  from  bank  and  strand; 

Waves  than  sunbeams  colder 
Revel  on  the  sand. 

While  the  mad  tide  rages, 

I  can  understand 
How  the  waves  are — ages, 

And  the  cities — sand. 

In  the  past  are  lying 
Ruins,  wisely  planned; 

While  the  years  are  crying: 
"Cities  in  the  sand." 

While  the  sun  is  gilding 
Sea,  and  sky,  and  land, 

Larger  hands  are  building 
Cities  in  the  sand. 


PURITY 

Behold  it  in  the  lilies  white 

That  star  the  stagnant  mere; 
Behold  it  in  the  snowflakes  light 

That  shroud  the  dying  year, 
And  in  the  spotless  pearl  that  sets 

The  blackness  of  the  cave, 
And  in  the  whitened  surf  that  frets 

Above  the  midnight  wave, 
And  in  the  cloud  that  piles  its  snow 

Above  the  canyon's  gloom, 
And  gleams  against  the  night  below 

In  towers  of  milk-white  foam. 

[287] 


THE   DEMON    OF    DESPAIR   AND   THE 
ANGEL  OF   HOPE. 

Evil  Enchantress  spread  thy  raven  wings, 

Thy  demon  wings; 
Touch  not  my  spirit  with  thy  venomed  stings, 

Thy  viper  stings ; 
Far  in  the  night  the  bird  of  sorrow  sings, 

So  sadly  sings. 

I  turn  to  gaze  on  Hope  as  on  a  star, 

A  distant  star; 
And  feel  thy  touch  my  inner  vision  mar, 

So  sadly  mar; 
That  o'er  her  beauty  burns  an  awful  scar, 

A  deep,  dark,  scar. 

Evil  Enchantress,  thy  despised  caress, 

Thy  fell  caress; 
My  soul  hath  shunned  for  only  Hope  could  bless, 

With  gladness  bless; 
Shall  I,  thy  dread,  unearthly  power  confess, 

At  last  confess? 

No;  by  the  heavens  above  me,  no, 

I  answer  "No." 
Go  from  my  spirit,  dark  destroyer,  go, 

With  trembling  go; 
Let  not  my  soul  thy  baleful  presence  know, 

Thy  blighting  know. 

Arise,  bright  angel,  Hope,  once  more  arise, 

In  joy  arise ; 
Cast  off  the  heavy  cloud  of  thy  disguise, 

Thy  dark  disguise ; 
Illumine  the  far  future's  farthest  skies, 

The  glorious  skies. 


Pierce  with  thy  beams  my  darkly  troubled  breast, 

My  aching  breast ; 
Hasten  to  flight  its  dark-winged  demon-guest, 

Its  transient  guest ; 
And  calm  with  hallowed  breath  its  wild  unrest, 

Its  deep  unrest. 

Pass  o'er  the  portals  of  my  soul  to-night, 

So  dark  to-night; 
Put  the  red  demon  of  Despair  to  flight, 

To  endless  flight; 
Abide  therein,  exalted,  pure  and  bright, 

Undimmed  and  bright. 


THE  ROSES 

I  would  sing  of  the  roses 

Their  fragrance,  their  color,  their  form; 

The  beautiful  fragrant  storm 

Of  petals,  dainty  rose  petals 

That  down  on  the  soft  grass  settles 

To  keep  the  daisies  warm. 

Each  exquisite  bud  that  uncloses, 

To  me  is  an  inspiration 

A  wonderful  new  creation 
That  some  mind  has  thought  about; 
And  skeptic,  where  is  your  doubt? 
Who  planned  the  pattern  and  cut  it  out 
Of  the  wonderful,  beautiful  roses? 

O  my  beautiful  roses! 
There  was  one  who  loved  you,  too, 
But  with  the  golden  Summer 
She  silently  passed  away; 

[289] 


I  would  give  all  ambition  has  thought  or  planned 
To  lay  one  bud  in  her  outstretched  hand 
And  see  her  smile  to-day. 

Where  shall  I  take  my  roses? 

Shall  I  walk  down  the  busy  street 

And  give  each  child  I  meet 

Whose  longing  eyes  shall  ask  it 

One  flower  from  my  brimming  basket, 

One  rosebud  fresh  and  sweet? 

Or  shall  I  take  my  roses 

To  cheer  an  invalid's  room 

With  color  and  perfume? 

From  altar  and  chancel  swinging 

Where  the  lofty  choir  is  singing 

Shall  they  burn  their  censer  bloom? 


SONG 

My  merry  maid  in  the  maple  shade, 

With  the  fresh,  green  leaves  above  you, 

With  your   child-like   face   and  your   artless   grace, 

Oh,  who  could  help  but  love  you ! 

And  I  would  not  break  for  your  own  sweet  sake, 
Your  dreams,  all  their  fairies  routing, 
And  idly  change,  with  a  truth  so  strange, 
Your  young  heart's  faith  to  doubting. 


[290] 


TO  THE  EPWORTH  LEAGUE. 

Come,  for  God  is  calling  over  land  and  sea ; 
"There's  a  field  left  idle;  who  will  work  for  Me?" 
Someone  heard  the  summons,  someone  made  reply: 
"I  will  lead  Thy  toilers,  Master  here  am  I." 

God  looks  down  from  Heaven,  human  toil  to  scan, 
Sees  what  work  is  needed  in  His  righteous  plan; 
Knows  what  fields  lie  idle,  feels  our  every  need, 
Sends  His  willing  workers  with  the  golden  seed. 

Thus  He  saw  the  youthful  of  His  precious  fold, 
Scattering  and  turning  from  the  gates  of  gold; 
Many  bright  allurements  leading  them  to  sin, 
In  God's  house  no  purpose  that  could  call  them  in. 

But  His  love  and  wisdom  all  our  toil  have  planned, 
Now  a  band  of  workers  in  His  house  they  stand ; 
No  more  scattered  idly  'midst  the  snares  of  sin, 
But  a  little  army  strong  to  fight  and  win. 

Strong  to  look  up  bravely  with  a  trusting  love, 
Trampling  wrong  beneath  them  as  they  onward  move ; 
Lifting  up  their  banners  with  a  joyful  song, 
Lifting  up  their  brothers  from  the  wrecks  of  wrong. 

Sing  your  joyful  anthems,  happy  Christian  League, 
Fear  not  Satan's  arrows  or  his  dark  intrigue; 
Though  your  loving  service  earth  may  not  applaud 
There  is  joy  eternal  in  the  smile  of  God. 


TO  THE  LADY  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Kneeling  at  her  window, 
Solemn  eyes  uplifted 
To  blue  skies,  where  sunbeams 
Through  soft  clouds  are  sifted. 

Two  hands  clasped  together, 
Mute  lips  sweet  and  pleading; 
Looking  in  the  future, 
Life's  great  problem  reading. 

Looking  in  the  future, 
With  a  silent  yearning; 
Little  in  the  distance 
Are  thine  eyes  discerning. 

No  faint  answer  cometh, 
From  the  deep  blue  zenith, 
To  thy  heart's  deep  question 
What  thy  future  meaneth. 

Lady,  like  an  angel's 
Is  thine  upturned  face ; 
Thou  hast  surely  wandered 
From  thy  natal  place. 

Lost  thy  way  and  straying 
From  the  pearly  portals; 
The  way  back  forgetting, 
Cast  thy  lot  with  mortals. 

Well  mayst  thou  be  kneeling, 
With  thine  eyes  uplifted; 
To  a  troubled  ocean 
Hath  thy  life-barque  drifted. 

[292] 


Midst  life's  earliest  promise, 
Twineth  sorrow's  omen; 
Thou  hast  taken  up  the  new, 
Untried  lot  of  woman. 

Looking  in  the  future, 
Lady,  may  the  years 
Bring  thee  hopes  to  triumph 
Over  all  thy  fears. 

But  should  they  deny  thee 
Thy  life's  happiness, 
Prove  thine  angel  mission, 
Other  lives  to  bless. 

Trust  no  smiling  fortune, 
Fear  no  frowning  fate; 
While  the  present  calleth, 
Let  the  future  wait. 

Now  a  still  voice  whispers: 
"Cast  on  Me  thy  care" ; 
Kneeling  at  thy  window 
Lift  thine  eyes  in  prayer. 


[293 


A  PRISONER. 

I  am  your  prisoner,  old  mother  earth, 
A  prisoner  glad  to  stay ; 
For  the  only  gate  from  your  prison  forth 
Is  shrouded  in  mystery. 

Could  I  climb  the  steeps  of  the  golden  stars, 
I  would  break  your  chains  to-night; 
Or,  could  I  ascend  the  sunset  bars, 
Thy  prisoner  would  take  her  flight. 

But  no  ladder  leans  to  the  sunset  skies, 
And  no  stairs  to  the  "milky  way" ; 
I  have  no  wings  like  the  bird  to  rise, 
So  a  prisoner  still  I  stay. 

A  prisoner  chained  to  this  little  ball, 
With  no  power  to  rise  beyond ; 
A  prisoner  shut  in  from  the  flaming  wall, 
That  the  universe  spreads  around. 

I  know  there  are  regions  unexplored, 
In  boundless  immensity, 
Beyond  where  human  thought  has  soared 
Or  human  eye  can  see. 

But  there's  only  one  gate,  old  mother  earth, 
That  each  must  pass  alone ; 
One  dark,  dark  road  that  leadeth  forth 
To  the  great,  the  wide  unknown. 


294] 


Does  a  ladder  up  from  its  gloom  ascend, 
More  bright  than  the  sunset  bars? 
This  end  is  clouded,  the  other  end 
Is  planted  beyond  the  stars. 

I  shall  stand  sometime  by  that  lonely  gate, 
And  its  solemn  silence  know; 
I  shall  grope  in  the  valley  dark,  and  wait 
'Till  the  message  comes  to  go. 

I  shall  pass  its  portals  and  journey  forth, 
To  fathom  its  mystery ; 
I  shall  break  your  fetters,  old  mother  earth, 
And  your  prisoner  shall  be  free. 


SUBTLE  INFLUENCE 

The  flower  that  lifts  its  head  at  morn 

Of  all  its  newborn  grace  unshorn 

Breathes  out  unconscious,  though  it  proves 

An  odor  to  despise  or  love; 

Nor  is  its  breath  unruled  by  laws, 

A  useless  myth  without  a  cause ; 

The  sap  concealed  by  Nature's  arts 

Supplies  the  odor  it  imparts, 

The  juices  with  its  nature  blent 

Make  up  its  sweet  or  noxious  scent ; 

Thus  subtle  influence  wafts  abroad 

A  power  for  evil  or  for  good, 

Unrealized  its  subtle  might, 

Unrealized  its  endless  flight ; 

But  none  life's  humblest  field  may  share, 

And  leave  unchanged  its  atmosphere, 

While  hidden  forces  shall  control 

The  subtle  incense  of  the  soul. 

[295] 


OUR  NATION'S  SLAVERY. 

Is  this  the  country  boasting  freedom's  reign, 

The  highest  good  a  nation  can  obtain ; 

Where  no  slave  murmurs  at  his  thankless  lot, 

Where  all  the  rights  of  liberty  are  taught ; 

Where  white  and  black  alike  rejoice  to  pay 

Their  tribute  to  the  matters  of  the  day ; 

Where  tongue  and  pen  declare  their  action  free, 

And  call  their  land  a  land  of  liberty? 

O  Goddess  !  from  thy  exalted  throne  look  down 

Upon  the  land  once  cursed  by  slavery's  frown, 

But  now  in  this  thrice  blest  enlightened  day, 

Declaring  that  no  tyrant  hand  shall  sway 

The  laws  that  flourish  for  a  nation's  good, 

So  dearly  purchased  by  a  nation's  blood. 

Look  down  upon  the  crowds  that  throng  the  street, 

On  restless  hands,  and  busy,  hurrying  feet; 

Look  in  upon  the  homes  of  every  grade, 

Homes  'neath  the  wide-furled  flag  of  freedom  made ; 

In  the  great  cities,  crowded  side  by  side, 

And  o'er  the  country  scattered  far  and  wide. 

Here,  clustered  in  a  growing,  thriving  town, 

There,  nestled  in  the  mountains,  bare  and  brown; 

Or  where  the  rivers  wash  their  verdant  banks, 

And  dancing  eddies  play  their  noisy  pranks. 

In  vine-wreathed  valleys  where  Spring  first  awakes, 

On  ocean-cliffs,  or  shores  of  inland  lakes ; 

Whether  by  mountains  crowned  or  city  domes, 

These  countless  dwellings  are  the  nation's  homes ; 

'Tis  here  the  child  begins  to  realize, 

The  stage  of  life  where  all  his  future  lies ; 

And  here  those  first  impressions  leave  their  trace, 

That  coming  years  can  never  quite  erase. 

And  in  these  homes  are  formed  the  minds  that  mold 


[296 


The  future  with  its  story  yet  untold. 

Oh,  how  important  that  these  homes  should  be 

Blest  with  the  love  of  truth  and  liberty. 

Look  down,  fair  Goddess,  on  the  work  of  years, 

Look  on  a  Nation's  triumphs  and  her  tears, 

Smile  on  the  work  that  has  been  nobly  done ; 

Rejoice  that  palms  of  victory  have  been  won, 

But  mourn  when  every  State  thine  eyes  have  scanned, 

Mourn  for  the  many  slaves  in  our  proud  land, 

Mourn  for  the  slaves  who  face  a  hopeless  fate, 

Mourn  for  the  many  homes  made  desolate. 

Slaves  to  the  wine-cup,  slaves  to  crime  and  vice, 

Selling  their  souls  and  for  a  paltry  price ; 

Slaves  to  a  life  of  misery  and  shame, 

Bound  by  the  fetters  of  a  tarnished  name ; 

Slaves  to  the  narrowing  love  of  gain  and  gold, 

Slaves  to  their  evil  passions  uncontrolled; 

These  all  are  slaves,  and  many,  many  more, 

Countless  as  sands  upon  the  ocean  shore. 

Read  in  the  faces  that  we  daily  meet, 

On  country  road  or  busy,  bustling  street, 

On  faces  joyous  and  on  faces  grave, 

Read  where  some  tyrant  hand  has  written, — slave. 

What  mean  these  countless  dens  of  vice  and  guilt? 

What  mean  these  prisons  that  our  land  has  built? 

What  mean  these  rum-shops  with  their  poisonous  breath 

Hurrying  scores  of  drunkards  down  to  death? 

They  say  in  language  undisguised  and  plain : 

"The  heartless  tyrants  have  not  all  been  slain." 

No,  though  the  African  has  gained  his  rights, 

And  freedom's  star  beams  o'er  oppression's  heights, 

Thousands  still  choose  to  wear  the  slave's  iron  band, 

Fastening  the  fetters  with  their  own  free  hand. 

Despising  all  the  rights  our  laws  afford, 

Take  off  their  armor  and  lay  down  their  sword; 


[297] 


To  watch  no  more  for  evil's  grave  alarms, 

To  fight  no  more  for  freedom's  priceless  charms ; 

To  live  in  wait  of  horrors  to  ensue, 

To  do  whate'er  their  master  bids  them  do. 

Their  choice,  where  wide-furled  flags  of  freedom  wave, 

To  fill  a  helpless  slave's  ignoble  grave. 

Why  are  they  slaves?    Can  mountain  chains  reply? 

They  only  echo  back  the  question  "Why?" 

Can  ocean  waves  the  burdened  problems  solve 

That  many  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  homes  involve  ? 

Answer,  ye  glittering  stars  with  wisdom  fraught, 

The  stars  are  dumb,  the  breakers  answer  not; 

There  is  no  reason  and  no  answer  given, 

Though  mighty  hills  with  thunderings  were  riven. 

The  question  stands  unanswered  by  a  voice : 

Why  will  a  man  make  slavery  his  choice, 

When  Liberty  her  triumph  song  awakes 

And  sheds  her  light  on  every  path  he  takes  ? 


PEACE  ON  EARTH 

Tired  was  my  soul,  more  weary  than  my  frame, 

Of  life's  hard  battle  between  right  and  wrong ; 

Weary  and  sick  I  cried :  "Not  wealth  or  fame, 

Give  me  not  happiness  or  titled  name, 

But  the  sweet  angel's  song; 

As  the  tired  shepherds  at  the  Saviour's  birth, 

May  not  God's  angels  sing  me,   Peace  on  Earth?" 

Then  a  white  angel  opened  wide  the  door, 

Softly  my  weary  spirit  entered  in 

And  God's  pure  angels,  hovering  gently  o'er, 

Shut  out  earth's  strife  and  sin, 

And  folded  their  broad  wings  of  light  around 

The  Heavenly  peace  my  soul  on  earth  had  found. 


"AT  EVENTIDE  IT  SHALL  BE  LIGHT." 

Clouded  and  dark  was  life's  little  day, 

To  the  weary  one  passing  through  waters  deep ; 

But  at  last  the  tempest  all  cleared  away, 

For  the  night  of  death  cometh  when  all  shall  sleep. 

And  the  eventide  followeth  after  the  day, 

And  the  eventide  cometh  before  the  night; 

And  to  him  who  waiteth  patiently, 

"At  eventide  it  shall  be  light." 

The  night  of  death  closed  life's  little  day, 

And  nothing  was  left  but  a  grass-grown  heap; 

And  gone  was  that  sunset  of  ecstasy, 

Ere  the  night  of  death  coming  had  bid  him  sleep. 

But  up  to  the  Sun  of  Righteousness, 

The  glorified  spirit  winged  its  flight; 

The  source  of  that  Heaven-born  happiness, 

"At  eventide  it  shall  be  light/' 

O  weary  journey,  O  dark,  dark  day ! 
O  thorns  and  chaff  that  so  many  reap ; 
'Till  the  tired  spirit  waiteth  longingly, 
For  the  night  of  death  coming  to  bid  it  sleep ! 
No  more  shall  tempest  with  withering  breath, 
Nor  hopeless  vigil,  nor  sleepless  night; 
But  the  loving  presence  that  whispereth : 
"At  eventide  it  shall  be  light." 

Ye  storms  and  clouds  of  life's  little  day, 

Across  my  sky  in  your  blackness  sweep, 

If  only  a  light  shine  on  my  way, 

When  the  night  of  death  coming  shall  bid  me  sleep. 

If  only  Hope's  bright,  immortal  ray 

Fall  peacefully  on  my  raptured  sight ; 

From  the  Lamb  that  lighteth  the  perfect  day, 

"At  eventide  it  shall  be  light." 

[299] 


THE  FIELDS 

Tossing  billows  of  wheat  and  oats 

Rolling  in  music  that  swells  and  floats, 

Rippling  in  many-hued  waves  of  flowers — 

I  love  them,  I  love  them,  these  fields  of  ours! 

They're  a-wing  with  birds,  they're  a-buzz  with  bees, 

They  are  shaded  in  nooks  by  old  forest  trees, 

They  are  torn  by  the  zigzag  creek  that  sings 

As  she  speeds  away  on  her  dripping  wings 

From  her  plunge  in  the  depths  of  her  mountain  springs. 

When  the  flowers  of  Spring  like  the  fogs  are  fed 

To  the  earth,  the  air  and  the  clouds  o'erhead, 

When  quickly  before  the  advancing  foe 

Like  a  fallen  army  the  grain  lies  low, 

That  Famine  may  never  dare  scale  the  fence 

Each  Autumn  comes  Ceres  to  pitch  her  tents, 

Takes  captive  the  whispering  spies  of  drought 

And  sends  old  Famine  retreating  south ; 

For  though  still  a  scepter  the  old  foe  wields 

He  never  has  conquered  these  valley  fields ; 

She  piles  up  the  wide  lying  sheaves  of  grain 

'Till  they  look  like  Philistines'  tents  on  the  plain, 

While  like  winged  vessels  that  sail  the  main 

The  larks  skim  over  the  waves  of  grain, 

While  the  laughing  raindrop  and  sunbeam  showers 

Are  pouring  their  floods  on  the  field  of  flowers. 

Whatever  the  wealth  that  the  glad  earth  yields 

I  love  them,  I  love  them,  the  fields,  the  fields! 

The  iron-horse  speeding  his  noisy  way 

Scents  the  fragrant  air  with  his  piercing  neigh, 

And  the  rumble  and  roar  of  the  passing  train 

Is  heard  each  day  from  the  fields  of  grain. 

Go  take  the  lark  from  his  lowly  nest 

With  his  wings  half-fledged  and  the  down  on  his  breast, 

[300] 


Make  his  prison  a  palace  with  sumptuous  fare, 
Be  the  bars  of  gold,  that  confine  him  there; 
'Midst  the  noise  and  dust  of  the  city  street 
He  may  carol  his  notes  so  high  and  sweet, 
But  his  golden  breast-plate  a  secret  shields, 
He  has  not  forgotten  the  waving  fields. 


THE  MIND'S  TREASURE-HOUSE. 

The  stars  of  Heaven's  ethereal  blue, 
The  birds  and  flowers  of  Spring, 

Present  to  every  passer-by 
Their  sweetest  offering. 

Can  hearts  be  hopeless,  homes  be  drear, 
When  joys  like  these  are  given 

To  deck  and  beautify  the  earth 
And  lift  our  thoughts  to  Heaven? 

The~song  that  filled  the  singer's  soul 

Another  could  not  hear, 
Naught  but  the  echo  of  that  song 

Fell  on  the  listening  ear. 

The  artist's  grandest  masterpiece 
The  searchers  can  not  find; 

Hidden  and  still  unseen  it  lies 
An  ideal  of  the  mind. 

So  with  the  poet,  truest  words, 

By  inspiration  wrought, 
Are  but — though  robed  in  loveliness — 

A  shadow  of  the  thought. 


[301] 


THE  WOMAN  TO  HER  FALSE  LOVER 

To-day  I  mourn  above  thy  new-made  grave 
As  one  bereft  of  hope, 

Choke  back  my  sobs  and  struggle  to  be  brave, 
And  blind  through  darkness  grope. 

I  know  you  live  in  health  and  vigor  yet 
Called  by  the  very  name, 
Wearing  the  form  and  face  I'll  ne'er  forget 
Of  my  dead  friend,  but  you  are  not  the  same. 

No,  not  the  same ;  the  friend  I  loved  was  free 
From  treachery,  and  true; 
Too  noble  for  deceit  and  falsity, 
And  what  of  you  ? 

My  friend  had  faults,  but  they  were  human  faults 

From  which  none  here  are  free; 

Yours  are  base  crimes  at  which  my  soul  revolts 

Instinctively. 

Oh,  to  awake  from  out  this  dream  of  madness, 
And  know  that  it  has  only  been  a  dream ; 
A  dark,  dark  night  that  fled  before  the  gladness 
Of  morn's  untroubled  beam! 

To  look  once  more  into  your  eyes  and  listen, 
Once  more  to  hear  your  voice  as  from  the  dust ; 
To  see  one  morning  sunbeam  dance  and  glisten 
Undarkened  by  distrust. 

For  oh !  your  falsity  has  rendered  duller 
All  Nature's  beauties  with  its  stunning  pain ; 
Robbed  sky  and  sea  and  landscape  of  their  color, 
Lowered  Nature's  music  to  a  minor  strain. 


[302] 


Could  you  but  know  one  half  the  bitter  trouble 
That  all  my  soul  in  ceaseless  anguish  grieves, 
Could  you  but  see  the  hopeless  chaff  and  stubble 
Of  my  life's  golden  sheaves; 

Could  you  but  see  them  as  I  see  them  daily 
A  dreadful  wreck  I  strive  to  rise  above; 
You  nevermore  would  win  to  trample  gaily 
A  woman's  deathless  love. 

Then  come  not  back  with  well-learned  look  and  tone, 

Caprice  or  impulse  led, 

You  are  a  stranger  I  have  never  known — 

The  friend  I  loved  is  dead. 

So  blind,  so  ignorant  are  we, 
Like  children  at  their  play ; 
We  toss  a  pebble  in  the  sea 
And  throw  a  gem  away. 

We  strew  bright  blossoms  in  the  sun 
By  careless  impulse  led, 
And  when  our  eager  quest  is  done 
Come  back  to  find  them  dead. 

Then  hold  life's  precious  things  with  care 
And  prize  them  at  their  worth; 
Thou  hast  ten  million  stones  to  spare, 
Thy  gems  are  few,  oh  earth ! 

There  is  a  lesson  often  learned 
In  life's  long  road  too  late, 
And  then  upon  the  Memory  burned 
With  the  iron  hand  of  Fate. 


303] 


'Tis  this :   To  early  count  the  cost 
And  value  at  their  worth, 
Before  by  careless  haste  are  lost 
The  brightest  things  of  earth. 


THE  POWER  OF  KINDNESS 

Who  can  weigh  the  power  of  kindness, 
Who  can  read  its  hidden  lore  ? 
O'er  the  wrecks  of  human  blindness 
Lo,  its  showers  of  mercy  pour ; 
Over  woes  and  heartaches  olden 
Pours  its  flood  of  sunshine  golden, 
Over  stern,  unyielding  justice 
Fall  its  beams  forevermore. 

Who  can  tell  the  power  of  kindness  ? 
Child,  among  the  flowers  at  play ; 
Stranger,  far  from  home  and  kindred, 
Weary  ones  along  the  way ; 
Hush !  a  rapture  sweet,  unbroken, 
Soul  to  soul  hath  often  spoken 
Words  unuttered,  yet  how  many 
Dwell  within  it  silently. 

Could  we  count  the  drops  that  sparkle 

In  the  ocean's  restless  brine, 

Could  we  count  the  stars  that  twinkle, 

Or  the  glittering  sands  that  shine ; 

We  might  count  the  germs  now  lying 

Silent,  dormant,  yet  undying; 

We  might  count  the  blossoms  springing 

From  these  lives  of  yours  and  mine. 


[304] 


PATIENCE 

Angel  with  the  noiseless  wings 

Meek  and  gentle  presence,  thou, 

Waiting  life's  uncertain  things, 

How  I  need  thy  guidance  now; 
Thou,  from  Heaven's  own  pearly  gate, 
Teach  my  restless  heart  to  wait. 

Oh,  to  wait  when  ships  that  sailed 
Cheer  our  anxious  sight,  no  more ; 
Oh,  to  wait  when  all  unveiled, 
Lie  the  mountain  steeps  before! 

Patience,  thine  own  peace  create, 

Teach  me  patiently  to  wait. 

Let  no  murmur  of  complaint 

Breathe   its   thankless   breath   to   heaven, 

Let  my  spirit  scorn  to  faint 

Though  its  fondest  hope  be  riven. 

Heeding  not  the  myth  of  fate, 

Oh,  to  truly  work  and  wait! 

Every  blossom  waits  for  rain, 
Every  bird  for  Spring's  return; 
Waiting  now,  I  would  again 
Strive  their  precious  trust  to  learn ; 

Trusting,  though  the  dawn  be  late, 

Trusting  patiently,  I  wait. 

Waiting  while  the  days  glide  by 

For  life's  blessing  or  its  bane, 

Though  the  seasons  bloom  and  die 

Patience  never  waits  in  vain; 
Father,  just  outside  the  gate 
Trusting  Thee,  I  calmly  wait. 

[305] 


LOOKING  BEYOND 

Thank  God  there  is  a  future,  in  whose  sweep 
These  little  troubled  streams  of  time  and  life 
Lose,  and  forevermore,  their  song  and  strife 
As  in  a  bottomless  and  boundless  deep. 

I  would  not  give  the  Christian's  simple  faith 
In  an  existence,  endless  and  complete, 
To  lay  earth's  cities,  trophies  at  my  feet, 
To  earn  the  fame  earth's  proudest  nation  hath ; 

For  oh !  though  life  (this  life)  is  dear  to  me 
Full  of  bright  hopes  and  sweet  realities, 
Time  is  a  tangle  of  perplexities 
And  sadness  permeates  all  things  that  be. 

Who  shall  restore  the  lost,  the  priceless  things 
That  eager  seekers  search  life's  pathway  for? 
Who  shall  health,  guiltlessness  and  youth  restore 
Or  wealth  and  grandeur,  flown  on  noiseless  wings? 

To  many,  life  is  like  a  long  regret; 
Mistakes  and  failures,  never  understood, 
Like  weeds,  choke  out  the  beautiful  and  good ; 
Man  most  remembers  when  he  would  forget. 

The  errors,  follies  and  the  crimes  that  trace 
Youth's  reckless  and  misguided  wanderings 
In  hidden  hearts  have  set  their  deathless  stings 
And  drawn  their  anguish  lines  on  beauty's  face. 


[306] 


And  what  is  life  to  him  whose  days  are  passed 
In  dire  affliction,  cursed  among  his  kind, 
In  youth  infirm,  in  manhood's  glory  blind, 
Spring's  promise  blighted  by  cold  winter's  blast? 

And  after  all,  though  Fortune's  favorite 
Long  life  and  happiness  and  wealth  may  gain, 
In  every  heart  there  is  a  secret  pain, 
Each  life  must  have  its  bitter  and  its  sweet. 

And  when  the  future  generations  look 
Back  to  a  past  that  is  our  present  now ; 
The  aching  heart  and  anxious,  troubled  brow 
Will  never  mar  a  page  of  Memory's  book. 

The  troubled,  tossing  torrent  and  the  tide 

Deep  and  unbroken  in  its  even  flow; 

Amid  the  depths  of  ocean,  who  shall  know 

Where  brooks  are  lost  and  mightiest  rivers  hide? 

What  value  hath  the  gem's  resplendent  ray 
More  than  the  common  pebble  on  the  beach, 
When  both  are  borne  beyond  our  mortal  reach 
By  waves,  that  none  may  dare  command  to  stay? 

The  happiest  and  most  wretched  of  mankind 
Hath  naught  to  boast  of,  nothing  to  deplore ; 
When  they  who  were  are  counted  as  no  more, 
The  years  roll  on  and  all  are  left  behind. 


[307] 


Life  were  a  dark  deceit,  a  demon's  jest, 
A  falsehood  and  a  cruel  mockery 
If  all  its  high,  sweet  promises  could  be 
Only  an  unsolved  problem  of  the  past. 

Thank  God,  there  is  a  future  life  where  we 
Shall  find  the  treasures  we  have  lost  in  this 
Nor  time,  nor  tide  shall  steal  away  the  bliss 
That  rolls  unbroken  as  a  waveless  sea ; 

Where  man  may  start  anew  with  tireless  zeal, 
Time  left  behind,  Eternity  before, 
Through  endless  cycles  rising  more  and  more 
To  understand  what  Time  could  not  reveal. 

Unburdened  by  this  heavy  cloak  of  clay 
To  scale  such  heights  as  mortals  may  not  climb ; 
To  solve  at  last  the  enigma  page  of  Time, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  despot  of  decay. 

I  would  not  give  the  Christian's  weakest  trust 
That  grasps  the  future  life  for  which  we  long 
For  all  the  hopes  so  ardent,  high  and  strong, 
Of  this  weak  life  that  crumbles  into  dust. 


[308] 


REVENGE. 

Not  in  the  expanse  of  earth  or  heaven's  abyss, 
Can  he  find  peace  whose  soul  hath  once  known  bliss ; 
But  now  is  scorched  and  withered  by  the  heat 
Of  that  consuming  cup  mad  fools  call  sweet 
Revenge,  whose  galling,  lurid,  fiery  taste 
Has  turned  brief  days  to  years  of  wear  and  waste. 
Wronged  by  thy  best  beloved,  despised,  betrayed, 
By  him  thou  trusted,  for  whom  thou  hast  prayed; 
Make  each  base  Judas  suffer  all  the  pangs 
That  soul  hast  suffered  from  his  serpent  fangs. 
In  righteous  anger  burns  thy  tortured  soul, 
But  wait,  each  fiery  impulse  hold,  control. 
Though  just  the  every  farthing  they  shall  pay. 
Believe  me,  thou  wilt  suffer  more  than  they, 
More  in  the  loss  of  life's  sublimest  part; 
The  God-like  nobleness  of  mind  and  heart, 
Sometime  unto  the  wronged  there  cometh  rest, 
But  never  peace  to  the  avenging  breast; 
Upon  the  actors  in  life's  Judas  play 
A  patient  Christ  looks  down  while  angels  pray. 


[309] 


THE    EARTHQUAKE. 

("He  looketh  on  the  earth  and  it  trembleth,  he 
toucheth  the  hills  and  they  smoke."— Psalm  104:32.) 

O  language  of  matchless  grandeur, 

Of  eloquence  truly  sublime! 

What  words  more  grandly  beautiful 

Are  engraved  on  the  tablets  of  time, 

Than  these  that  come  to  me  sweetly 

Like  a  voice  from  the  quaking  sod, 

Ascribing  all  power  and  dominion 

Not  to  Nature,  but  Nature's  God; 

As  full  to-day  of  new  meaning 

As  when  first  the  psalmist  spoke: 

"He  looketh  on  the  earth  and  it  trembleth, 
He  toucheth  the  hills  and  they  smoke." 

The  hurricane's  fearful  ravage, 

Leaving  death  and  destruction  behind; 

The  perils  of  land  and  ocean, 

With  which  life's  pathway  is  lined, 

Sweep  by  in  their  awful  terror, 

With  blighting,  withering  breath; 

But  where  shall  we  go  for  refuge 

When  the  solid  earth  quakes  beneath? 

Lo!    'Tis  the  voice  of  the  psalmist 

To  each  quaking  age  it  spoke : 

"He  looketh  on  the  earth  and  it  trembleth, 
He  toucheth  the  hills  and  they  smoke." 

'Tis  a  voice  from  the  burning  mountains, 
From  their  streams  of  melting  rock, 
Bursting  forth  from  fissured  craters, 


[310] 


At  the  earthquake's  dreadful  shock. 

Will  you  flee  to  the  hills  for  refuge? 

Lo,  their  rock-ribbed  sides  are  rent 

To  emit  the  poisonous  vapors 

In  the  earth's  interior  pent! 

Stand  still  in  Jehovah's  presence. 

Will  you  still  His  anger  provoke 

Who  "looketh  on  the  earth  and  it  trembleth," 
Who  "toucheth  the  hills  and  they  smoke?" 

'Tis  a  voice  from  the  buried  cities, 

From  the  dust  where  they  long  have  lain; 

From  their  crumbling  shrines  and  idols, 

From  the  ashes  of  their  slain. 

Was  it  only  a  law  of  Nature, 

When  those  pent-up  vapors  became 

A  mighty  force,  that  the  mountains 

Burst  forth  in  floods  of  flame? 

Ah !  'tis  the  words  of  the  psalmist, 

With  their  swift  destruction  yoked: 

"He  looketh  on  the  earth  and  it  trembleth, 
He  toucheth  the  hills  and  they  smoke." 

Be  calm,  oh  my  soul  within  me, 

Thy  God  will  thy  refuge  find; 

Who  maketh  the  clouds  His  chariot, 

Who  rideth  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

Whose  voice  in  its  awful  grandeur, 

As  heard  in  the  thunder's  crash; 

Whose  arrows  flying  earthward 

In  the  lightning's  lurid  flash, 

May  strike  down  the  proud  in  a  moment 

Or  splinter  the  giant  oak. 

Who  "looketh  on  the  earth  and  it  trembleth, 
Who  toucheth  the  hills  and  they  smoke." 


When  the  solid  earth  beneath  us, 

Grows  frail  as  a  tossing  boat ; 

There  is  but  one  hand  can  guide  it, 

One  power  that  can  keep  it  afloat. 

O  ye,  who  would  seek  a  refuge, 

By  a  thousand  perils  awed; 

Earth  is  but  a  storm-tossed  vessel, 

There  is  safety  only  in  God. 

His  guidance  seek  through  all  danger, 

His  love  and  protection  invoke 

Who  "looketh  on  the  earth  and  it  trembleth," 
Who  "toucheth  the  hills  and  they  smoke." 


THE    NEW    SONG. 

Unto  Him  who  hath  loved  us  be  all  adoration, 

With  the  harp  notes  of  gladness  the  new  heaven  rings; 

Who  from  every  kindred  and  people  and  nation 

Hath  redeemed  us  and  crowned  us  His  priests  and  His  kings. 

Unto  Him  who  hath  loved  us,  no  more  shall  our  singing 
Be  burdened  with  discords  of  sorrow  and  pain; 
Throughout  His  pavilion  the  praises  are  ringing, 
Of  the  King  who  has  risen  forever  to  reign. 

Unto  Him  who  hath  loved  us,  on  earth  and  in  heaven, 
In  the  light  of  His  presence  no  spirit  shall  grieve ; 
All  honor  and  glory  and  power  shall  be  given, 
Who  only  is  worthy  our  praise  to  receive. 

Unto  Him  who  hath  loved  us  before  His  throne,  falling 
'Midst  the  holy  hushed  tremor  of  seraphim  wings; 
His  glory  and  power  with  glad  voices  extolling, 
Who  hath  loved  us  and  crowned  us, 
His  priests  and  His  kings. 


UNSAID. 

The  last  stray  gleams  of  sunshine  fade  away 

From  the  gray  domes  of  far  Mt.  Hamilton, 

While  lighting  the  dim  towers  of  San  Jose, 

Burns  out  the  Autumn  glory  of  the  sun. 

The  guests  pass  from  the  door  and  through  the  gate, 

The  little  gate  with  olive  boughs  o'erhead. 

My  friend  sits  thinking  sadly  as  if  Fate 

Had  dropped  a  few  dead  blossoms  on  her  head; 

A  few  dead  orange  blossoms  sadly  sweet, 

That  ne'er  shall  drop  their  fruitage  at  her  feet. 

My  friend  moves  restless  as  those  who  wait 

Some  white-winged  vessel  sailed,  that  ne'er  returns; 

The  olives  whisper  "peace"  above  the  gate, 

The  flaming  sunset  into  ashes  burns. 

We  wander  out  into  the  spacious  grounds, 

Where  orange  blossoms  scent  the  silent  weeks; 

When  softly,  as  the  twilight's  whispered  sounds, 

My  dear  friend  pauses  'neath  a  palm  and  speaks, 

And  says  with  troubled  voice  and  downcast  head: 

"The  dearest  word  of  all  was  left  unsaid." 

Tell  me,  palm  branches  waving  victory, 

What  power  the  guiltless  evil  can  forgive; 

The  sad  regret  or  restless  agony, 

That  in  one  sweet,  unspoken  message  live? 

My  California  groves  are  full  of  song, 

Full  of  glad  thoughts  and  thrills  of  happiness. 

Oh  human  hearts  that  bear  no  brand  of  wrong, 

Oh  loving  lips  that  only  speak  to  bless; 

The  dew-tears  falling  on  your  blossoms  dead, 

Are  for  the  words  forever  left  unsaid! 


[313] 


THE   LITTLE  TOILER. 

While  our  tired  hands  are  resting,  while  our  weary  feet  are 

still, 
While  soft  slumber  calms  and  quiets  busy  brain  and  active 

will; 

There's  a  little  willing  worker  stationed  in  each  human  breast 
That  can  never  stop  to  slumber,  taking  but  a  second's  rest. 

Beating,  beating, 

Still  repeating 
Measured  notes  of  labor's  strife; 

Ceasing  never, 

Toiling  ever 
At  the  glowing  forge  of  life. 

When  our  powers  in  weakness  languish  and  our  strength  is 

ebbing  low, 
When  the  wheels  of  thought  and  feeling  at  our  word  refuse 

to  go; 

With  our  eager,  restless  fingers  growing  idler  day  by  day, 
At  his  wheel  the  little  toiler,  faithful,  steady,  works  away. 

Throbbing,  throbbing, 

'Midst  the  sobbing 
Of  the  stricken  in  the  strife; 

Toiling  ever, 

Idling  never 
At  the  cistern  wheel  of  life. 

And    the    keepers    all    shall    tremble    and    the   strong   their 
weakness  know, 


[314] 


And  in  sorrows  all  the  daughters  of  music  be  brought  low; 
And  the  golden  bowl  be  broken  and  the  silver  cord  be  loosed, 
Ere  the  little  anxious  toiler  hath  his  changeless  labor  ceased. 

Moving  slower, 

Beating  lower, 
Struggling  bravely  in  the  strife; 

First  awaking, 

Last  in  breaking 
At  the  crimson  font  of  life. 


WOUNDED. 

Once  a  little  song  bird  caroled 
Notes  of  perfect  ecstasy, 
In  bright  costume  all  apparelled, 
Happy  as  a  bird  could  be. 

Never  thought  of  pain  or  danger, 
Made  his  happy  song  less  sweet; 
'Till  the  footfall  of  a  stranger 
Sounded  through  his  cool  retreat. 

Just  a  red  stain  on  the  mosses, 
Just  a  broken,  shattered  strain; 
Just  a  tiny  wing  that  flutters, 
But  will  never  rise  again. 

Lying  underneath  the  grasses, 
Hidden  from  the  sportsman's  eye; 
Hour  by  hour  the  long  day  passes, 
Dying,  still  yet  cannot  die. 

Thus  one  sunny  day  I  found  it, 
Wounded  with  a  cruel  dart; 
With  sad  silence  all  around  it, 
Was  the  little  bird— a  Heart? 

[3iS] 


A   PICTURE. 

There  are  many  beautiful  pictures 

Hanging  in  memory's  hall, 
Pictures  of  hills  and  valleys, 

Houses  and  steeples  tall; 
.Pictures  of  sunlight  and  shadow, 

Of  faces  grave  and  gay, 
And  some  that  rise  from  the  misty  past 

Seem  to  be  far  away; 
But  one  more  beautiful  than  the  rest 

Hangeth  apart  alone ; 
And  the  thoughts  it  awakens  are  unexpressed, 

'Tis  a  picture  of  my  home. 
'Tis  a  little  cottage  on  a  hill 

Where  the  golden  sunbeams  play, 
While  the  little  lambs  o'er  the  meadow  run 

And  frolic  the  livelong  day. 
The  creek  o'er  the  pebbles  flows  along 

Past  fields  of  waving  grain; 
And  the  finches  and  warblers  vie  in  song, 

In  one  melodious  strain. 
The  old  orchard  stands  in  conscious  pride, 

Weighed  down  with  ripening  fruit; 
And  the  oriole  fills  the  scented  air 

With  his  song  like  a  clear-voiced  flute ; 
But  'tis  not  for  these  that  I  love  it  best, 

There  are  many  scenes  as  fair; 
But  'tis  for  the  friends  so  tried  and  true, 

For  the  loving  hearts  that  are  there. 
I  look  and  I  see  my  mother, 

Down  the  grassy  hill-slope  walk ; 
Leading  the  little  brother, 

Who  is  just  beginning  to  talk. 
I  can  almost  hear  his  prattle 

As  he  laughs  in  childish  joy; 


O,  how  I  wish  I  could  see  you, 

Our  dear  little  blue-eyed  boy! 
I  can  see  my  little  sister, 

Who  is  wise  beyond  her  years; 
How  I  wish  she  could  ever  be  free  as  now 

From  all  life's  cares  and  fears. 
And  all  of  the  other  dear  ones, 

I  can  see  them  all  quite  well; 
Without  them  the  beautiful  picture 

Would  lose  its  magic  spell. 
O,  what  are  earth's  fading  pictures, 

Or  what  is  the  painter's  art, 
Compared  with  the  pictures  of  memory 

Engraven  on  the  heart? 


THE  JOY  OF  LIVING. 

0  life,  more  precious  than  before, 
Because  my  feet  have  neared  thine  end; 
Bright  sunshine,  flowers  and  face  of  friend, 

1  prize  you  more,  I  love  you  more ! 

The  balmy  ecstasy  of  morn, 
The  joy  of  all  things  seeming  new; 
Once  more  to  go  forth  'neath  the  blue, 
And  to  be  glad  that  I  was  born. 

0  life,  sweet  endless  life,  when  I 
Have  one  glimpse  of  all  thou  art, 
Will  joy  erase  from  mind  and  heart 
This  shadowy  earth,  this  faded  sky! 

If  I  miss  not  one  cherished  face, 

As  I  have  prayed  with  heart  and  breath; 

1  shall  forget  life's  suffering — death, 
Remembering  this  our  meeting  place. 

[317] 


HELP  EACH  OTHER. 

Help  each  other,  life's  a  journey, 
Weary  foot-worn  pilgrims,  we, 

Traveling  to  a  better  country, 

To  a  home  beyond  the  sea. 

Help  each  other  in  the  journey, 
For  we  cannot  always  know 

How  the  sharp  thorns  line  the  pathway 

Of  our  brothers  here  below. 

Though  we  may  walk  in  the  sunshine, 

Others  may  in  darkness  grope; 

Help  thy  brothers,  comfort,  cheer  them, 
Point  them  to  the  star  of  hope. 

Comfort  one  another  daily, 
Pleasant  words,  they  little  cost; 

Yet  their  loving,  gentle  message, 

Can  be  never,  never  lost. 

Help  thy  brother,  when  temptation's 
Stormy  billows  o'er  him  roll ; 

O  remember  that  thy  brother 

Hath  a  never-dying  soul ! 

Though  he  may  despond  or  falter, 
His  weak  struggles  don't  despise ; 

Even  though  he  may  have  fallen, 

Help  a  fallen  brother  rise. 

Help  each  other,  life  is  fleeting, 

Time  for  us  will  soon  be  gone; 
Kind  acts  we  will  not  regret  them, 
When  a  brighter  morn  shall  dawn. 


Do  thy  little,  though  forgotten, 
On  the  earth  shall  be  thy  name ; 

Sometime  the  dark  grave  shall  open 
Where  thy  buried  hopes  have  lain. 

Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters, 
Waiting  not  for  earthly  praise; 

Ye  shall  find  it  not  forgotten, 

Find  it  after  many  days. 

When  upon  life's  stormy  billows 
Thy  frail,  helpless  bark  is  tossed; 
O  remember!     One  who  watches 
Will  not  count  thy  labor  lost. 

Do  thy  duty,  stand  up  bravely 

In  the  battle  of  the  Lord ; 

Earth  'tis  true  may  never  pay  thee, 
Heaven  will  bring  thee  thy  reward. 


[319] 


SLAVERY 

Where  the  palm  groves  and  bananas  in  the  sunny  Tropics  thrive, 
Where  the  parrots'  lively  chatter  makes  the  jungle  seem  alive, 
Where  the  beach-sands  sparkle,  brightly  splashed  by  warm  and 

steaming  surf, 
Where  the  Orient  bathers  gather  on  the  grassy  sand-strewn  turf, 

Oh,  the  foreign  trader's  vessel, 

Like  an  eagle  out  for  prey, 

Swooping  down  for  one  brief  wrestle 

Bore  the  helpless  spoil  away! 

Oh,  the  lonesome  wastes  of  ocean;  oh,  the  far  and  mournful 

land! 

To  the  heart  of  the  poor  heathen,  woe  he  could  not  understand ; 
Cursed  through  weary  generations,  with  a  thankless  load  to 

bear, 
None  a  recompense  to  promise,  none  to  soothe  the  present's  care ; 

Twas  a  sunny  land  of  plenty 

Where  the  white- winged  eagle  sped ; 

But  to  him  a  portion  scanty 

That  the  eaglets  might  be  fed. 

Where  the  beautiful  palmettoes  in  the  Tropic  Summer  thrive, 
Where  bright  birds  with  Freedom's  music  make  the  cypress- 
swamps  alive; 
Oh,  the  hopeless  child  of  bondage,  torn  from  Nature's  dearest 

ties, 
Labors  on  for  Might's  proud  despot,  or  in  slow  despairing  dies! 

'Tis  a  scene  of  life  engraven 

On  the  records  of  the  past, 

Hovered  o'er  by  wrong's  dark  raven, 

With  false  grandeur  overcast. 


[320] 


Cursed  be  the  dark-browed  Canaan ;  was  it  God's  supreme  decree 
That  in  Japheth's  holier  presence,  he  should  bend  the  vassal's 

knee? 

What  know  we  of  God's  wise  purpose? 
Lo,  His  own  almighty  hand 

With  the  sword  of  heavenly  justice  banished  slavery  from  our 
land! 

'Twas  a  struggle  long  and  gory, 

But  the  hand  of  God  was  there ; 

To  the  presence  of  His  glory 

Had  been  borne  an  Israel's  prayer. 

In  His  righteous  indignation  had  His  holy  eyes  looked  down ; 
Was  there  One  who  plead  before  Him  who  had  worn  derision's 

crown, 

Who  had  trod  the  wine-press  sadly, 
Who  had  borne  the  tyrant's  blow, 
Who  had  felt  in  bitter  anguish  none  were  with  Him  in  His  woe? 

Oh,  against  wrong's  mighty  forces 

On  the  battlefield  of  earth, 

Who  shall  say  that  Heaven's  white  horses 

Bear  no  unseen  warriors  forth! 

To  the  battlements  of  evil  have  those  Heavenly  chariots  flown, 
As  when  Babylon  was  fallen  and  her  kingdom  proud  o'erthrown ; 
With  the  powers  of  human  justice  move  they  swiftly  o'er  the 

plain, 
'Till  a  mightier  than  Belshazzar  in  his  princely  court  is  slain; 

'Till  the  peer  of  Persia's  nations 

Waves  her  trampled  flag  afar, 

And  above  the  old  plantations 

Rises  Freedom's  morning-star. 

In  his  pride  the  lordly  tyrant  flings  his  palace  gateways  wide, 
All  the  hosts  of  earth  and  heaven  by  his  hand  have  been  defied; 


[321] 


Who  can  guess  the  covered  secrets  deeply  buried  in  his  breast? 
Oh,  his  sons  and  daughters  revel  while  they  slumber  unconfessed ; 

But  through  all  the  scorching  noon-tide 

And  beneath  the  sinless  moon, 

Toil  the  fatherless  mulatto 

And  the  "beautiful  quadroon." 

Oh,  thou  dark  and  mighty  evil,  thou  hast  left  thy  curse  behind 
And  uncounted  generations  shall  with  quickened  vision  find, 
On  the  pure  and  lofty  pages  of  our  country's  history  fair, 
One  great  blot  that  wide  outspreading  mars  sweet  Freedom's 
record  there ; 

And  the  cotton-fields  shall  quiver 

With  dread  mysteries  untold, 

And  the  dim  swamp-forests  shiver 

With  the  secrets  black  they  hold ! 

And  a  mixed,  degraded  people  shall  the  sunny  South  invest; 
Lawless,  ignorant  and  vicious  in  their  scanty  lives  unblest; 
Will  ye  thoughtlessly  upbraid  them  and  their  ignorance  descry? 
Well  might  they  in  truth  and  candor  make  to  this  a  just  reply: 
"  Ye  have  dared  to  thus  degrade  us, 

And  our  simple  minds  to  mar, 

Come  not  blindly  to  upbraid  us, 

Ye  have  made  us  what  we  are. " 

But  not  all  on  Africa's  children  was  the  cloud  of  evil  spent, 
Faith  and  Truth's  divinest  altars  by  the  black-winged  bolt  were 

rent; 

Who  enslaves  another's  manhood  with  weak  human  power  alone, 
Lays  a  heavier  yoke  of  bondage  thoughtlessly  upon  his  own ; 

With  thy  bonds  of  degradation, 

Oh,  thou  mighty  power  of  sin, 

Through  the  gateways  of  our  Nation, 

Come  no  more  a  traitoress  in! 


[322] 


COALS. 

As  baby  fingers,  eager,  restless  things, 
Reach  out  to  grasp  the  cruel,  glowing  coals; 
So  we  reach  out  for  some  alluring  thing, 
Lying  before  us  bright  and  glistening; 
Unmindful  of  the  sorrow  it  may  bring, 
Until  its  blighting  scar  is  on  our  souls. 

And  as  a  stronger  arm  extended  forth, 

To  save  the  tender  flesh  from  unseen  harm ; 

Sometimes  just  as  we  think  to  grasp  our  prize, 

A  wiser  will  than  ours,  our  wish  denies ; 

Our  Father  reaches  downward  from  the  skies, 

And  holds  us  back  with  His  almighty  arm. 

Our  Father  see'th  all,  we  see  in  part, 

Sometime  He  will  reveal  to  us  the  whole; 

Then  when  He  holds  us  back  from  some  bright  glow, 

O  let  us  not  rebel  and  struggle  so ; 

The  hidden  danger  He  alone  can  know, 

The  glowing  thing  we  want  may  be  a  coal. 


[323 


POSTHUMOUS 

We  may  praise  the  workmanship  of  the  skillful  architect, 

When  the  fabric  that  he  rears 

Hath  withstood  the  wear  of  years, 

And  the  battles  of  the  elements,  its  symmetry  unwrecked; 

But  when  with  an  interest  new  from  its  grandeur  we  may  turn, 

Of  the  magic  hand  that  wrought 

From  the  outlines  of  a  thought, 

To  completeness  so  colossal  and  symmetrical,  to  learn, 

If  a  record  we  may  find,  often  'tis  the  message  solemn 

That  the  mind  of  sterling  worth 

Hath  been  summoned  earth  to  earth, 

And  the  hand  is  only  dust  that  reared  massive  aisle  and  column. 

We  may  laud  the  sculptor's  art  gazing  on  his  work  immortal, 

Where  on  dome  and  pedestal 

His  illustrious  statues  dwell, 

Or  in  form  majestic  raised  to  adorn  some  marble  portal; 

From  the  triumphs  of  his  art,  to  the  artisan  we  turn, 

Of  the  magic  hand  that  wrought 

From  the  outlines  of  a  thought, 

To  a  symmetry  and  stateliness  so  marvelous,  to  learn, 

Oh,  how  often  do  we  find  that  for  years  before  our  time 

That  proud  chisel  gathered  rust 

And  that  hand  was  only  dust, 

And  to  ashes  burned  the  ardent  flame  of  genius  so  sublime ! 

We  may  read  the  author's  lore,  all  our  spirits  filling 

With  the  grandeur  of  his  theme 

And  the  beauty  of  his  dream, 

With  a  strange  unfathomed  power  all  our  being  thrilling; 

Then  with  reverence  enkindled  from  the  printed  page  we  turn, 

Of  the  mind  with  truth  afire, 

Of  the  genius  we  admire, 


[324] 


From  the  archives  of  the  ages,  with  new  interest,  to  learn, 

Oh,  the  answer  is  the  same,  ere  our  generation 

That  great  pen  hath  gathered  rust 

And  that  hand  hath  turned  to  dust, 

And  that  mind  hath  left  behind  only  its  creation ! 

We  may  prize  the  thoughts  that  live  on  the  artist's  canvas, 

Thoughts  that  bloom  in  wintry  hours, 

Wrought  from  the  enkindled  powers 

Of  a  nature  and  a  mind,  stamping  their  own  impress; 

With  a  thought  of  whose  they  are  and  from  whom  they  came, 

we  turn, 

Of  the  place  of  his  abode, 
Of  his  life's  oft  chequered  road, 

Of  his  genius  and  his  nature  with  keen  interest,  to  learn, 
'Tis  the  same ;  the  brush  that  moved  o'er  the  fadeless  canvas 
Hath  been  idle  many  a  day, 
And  the  despot  of  decay 
Hath  enslaved  the  mighty  brain,  leaving  but  its  impress. 

We  may  list  to  music's  power  'till  its  spell  hath  bound  us, 

Weaving  all  its  silken  chords, 

Linked  perchance  with  golden  words, 

Like  bright  fetters  of  delight  clinging  gently  'round  us; 

But  when  from  its  sundered  shreds  with  a  new  desire  we  turn, 

Of  the  soul  that  in  them  lives, 

Of  the  mind  that  to  them  gives 

All  their  meaning  and  their  beauty  and  their  mystery,  to  learn, 

Still  the  records  will  repeat  that  the  great  musician, 

Whose  notes  sway  the  world  at  will 

Silent  now,  ah,  strangely  still, 

Hath  lived  out  his  brief  career  and  fulfilled  his  mission. 


[325] 


We  may  revel  in  the  light  of  each  grand  invention, 

We  may  bless  the  mind  that  caught 

Inspiration  from  a  thought, 

To    perceive    earth's    mighty    forces    move,    or    hold    them    in 

suspension ; 

But  instinctively  away  from  their  master-truths  we  turn, 
Of  the  reason  that  revolved, 
The  great  problem  that  it  solved, 
All  too  often  to  the  victor's  lifelong  injury,  to  learn, 
And  the  records  as  before  tell  us  that  the  donor 
Of  the  priceless  dower  we  prize, 
'Neath  the  frozen  marble  lies, 
Undisturbed  by  calumny,  eulogy  or  honor. 

We  may  read  the  poet's  lay,  strong  in  truth  yet  tender, 

Waking  echoes  in  our  hearts 

Till  the  silent  teardrop  starts, 

With  a  sympathy  responding  to  its  feeling,  thought  and  splendor ; 

But  when  from  its  fountain  bright  we  have  quaffed,  to  quickly 

turn, 

Of  the  spirit  and  the  mind, 
That  their  image  left  behind, 

Clear  reflected  in  the  light  of  its  crystal  depths,  to  learn, 
Oft,  that  same  weird  taper-light  o'er  our  senses  flashes; 
Long  the  pen  hath  idle  lain, 
God  hath  spoken  yet  again, 
Earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust,  ashes  unto  ashes. 

Poor  humanity  were  they,  blossoming  and  blighting, 

Living  out  their  little  day, 

Clearing  barriers  from  our  way, 

Kindling  beacons  that  to-day  are  our  century  lighting. 


[326] 


Debts  of  gratitude  we  owe  to  each  fellow  mortal 

Who  in  mind  or  spirit  strong 

Struggled  through  the  ranks  of  wrong, 

To  unfurl  his  banner  bright  o'er  the  future's  portal. 

Poor  humanity  are  we  in  our  loftiest  stations, 

Whether  high  our  lot  or  low, 

'Tis  our  destiny  to  go 

Sowing  golden  seeds  to  bless  coming  generations. 

For  a  prize  that  is  not  ours  we  are  ever  striving; 

Ours,  the  sower's  tedious  round, 

Theirs,  to  reap  the  fruitful  ground, 

Happy  if  they  only  prove  better  for  our  living. 

We  may  do  illustrious  deeds,  we  may  pen  grand  pages; 

We  may  sing  immortal  songs, 

We  may  trample  error's  wrongs, 

Or  we  may  but  humbly  toil  for  the  coming  ages ; 

They  may  gather  in  the  sheaves  from  our  toil  upspringing, 

They  may  laud  us  for  our  skill, 

At  our  golden  lore  may  thrill, 

They  may  bless  our  noble  deeds,  they  may  praise  our  singing; 

But  when  from  our  work  away,  to  ourselves  at  last  they  turn, 

Who  we  are  and  whence  we  came, 

Of  the  history  and  name 

Of  the  few  whose  names  are  blazoned  on  the  scroll  of  Fame,  to 

learn ; 

They  will  find  we,  too,  are  dust,  who  so  lately  flourished, 
Fallen  Autumn  leaves  at  last, 
Of  some  glowing  Summer  past, 
Grateful  if  some  violet  grow,  by  our  life-leaves  nourished. 


327] 


THE  OAK  AND  THE  VINE 

To  a  stalwart  oak  a  fragile  vine 

With  its  helpless  tendrils  clung, 

And  looking  up  saw  the  sunbeams  shine 

The  lofty  boughs  among, 

But  never  content  with  its  low  estate, 
Longed  like  the  oak  to  be  noble  and  great. 

Longed  to  arise  from  the  dark  and  damp, 

Of  the  thicket  where  it  grew ; 

Bask  in  the  light  of  the  sky's  bright  lamp 

And  revel  'neath  seas  of  blue ; 

But  the  poor  little  vine,  unsought,  unknown, 
Was  too  weak  to  even  stand  alone. 

The  stately  oak  felt  her  clinging  touch 
And  bowed  his  haughty  head  ; 
But  he  felt  too  proud  to  speak  to  such 
A  little  thing,  so  he  said: 
"  Only  a  little  vine,  so  small 
Without  my  aid  it  would  surely  fall.  " 

But  the  oak's  gaunt  trunk  was  rough  and  bare, 

Gnarled  and  disfigured  by  time, 

And  wishing  still  to  be  young  and  fair, 

He  let  the  grapevine  climb, 

Saying :  "Helpless  vine  so  far  beneath, 

You  may  twine  my  bark  with  a  glossy  wreath." 

Gladly  the  vine  performed  its  task 

Nor  sighed  for  a  higher  lot, 

Nor  paused  in  its  humble  work  to  ask 

What  glory  its  service  brought; 

For,  though  it  was  neither  great  nor  high, 
Was  it  not  nearing  the  lovely  sky? 

[328] 


So  the  years  passed  by  and  the  old  oak  stood 

In  its  conscious  pride  the  same, 

Nor  strove  for  a  higher,  nobler  good, 

Content  with  its  vaunted  fame; 
While  the  little  vine  so  far  below, 
Ne'er  lost  for  a  moment  its  wish  to  grow. 

Upward,  onward,  it  steadily  crept, 
'Till  the  rough  bark  was  draped  with  green, 
And  then  while  the  haughty  monarch  slept, 
It  clambered  the  boughs  between, 
And  gained  one  morning  in  ecstasy 
The  topmost  bough  of  the  old  oak  tree. 

Brightly  the  light  on  its  glossy  leaves  glanced, 

And  a  bird  perched  on  its  stem, 

While  the  merry  sunbeams  around  it  danced, 

In  a  glistening  diadem, 
And  at  night  the  moon  with  a  smile  benign 
Shone  down  on  the  little  helpless  vine. 

Years  passed  and  one  of  the  Autumn  eves 

Some  travelers  passed  that  way, 

Beheld  of  yellow  and  crimson  leaves, 

A  wondrously  gorgeous  array; 

They  paused  and  cried  in  their  rapt  delight : 
"The  vine  has  hidden  the  oak  from  sight ! " 

And  the  tree  awoke  from  its  high  conceit, 
To  find  himself  at  last, 
By  the  little  clinging  vine  at  his  feet, 
So  wondrously  surpassed, 

And  cried,  in  his  deep  regret,  "  To  me 

Was  the  loftiest  station  given, 

But  while  I  boasted  nobility, 

The  vine  was  nearest  Heaven.  " 

[329] 


THE  BRIDAL  BELL 

Oh  Bridal  Bell,  lone  Bridal  Bell ! 

Who  shall  thy  vanished  glory  tell, 

Where  by  rude  hands  now  cast  aside, 

Thou  liest  stripped  of  all  thy  pride? 

Where  are  the  pale,  sweet  flowers  that  wound 

Thy  wire  frame  gaily  'round  and  'round, 

And  where  thy  lily  clapper  white, 

That  trembled  in  the  dazzling  light  ? 

Oh  Bridal  Bell,  changed  Bridal  Bell ! 
What  peri  rung  thy  fairy  knell  ? 
What  elfin  hung  thy  walls  with  bloom? 
What  wizard  wrought  thy  sudden  doom 
In  dust  and  darkness  to  repine? 
What  king  deplored  a  fall  like  thine  ? 
The  spider  strings  his  voiceless  lyre 
In  busy  haste  from  wire  to  wire. 

Oh  Bridal  Bell,  lone  Bridal  Bell ! 
What  magic  shall  thy  gloom  dispel? 
Shall  hands  again  thy  bareness  deck 
Or  Beauty  yet  reclaim  her  wreck 
From  out  the  debris  of  the  past, 
Where  all  her  vessels  lie  at  last? 
Alas,  thy  latest  meed  is  won, 
Thou  weird,  unsightly  skeleton ! 

Oh  Bridal  Bell,  lone  Bridal  Bell! 

Vague  fancies  in  thy  cavern  dwell; 

Thou  seem'st  like  that  institute 

To  which  each  minstrel  tunes  his  flute; 

Like  thine  the  Bridal's  brief  display 

Oft  blossoms  but  to  fade  away, 

'Till  but  its  legal  ties  are  left 

[330] 


Of  all  Love's  faded  flowers  bereft; 
Its  blighted  buds  of  Hope  and  Trust 
Are  trodden  rudely  in  the  dust, 
'Till  cast  aside  it  lies  undone, 
A  rude,  unsightly  skeleton. 

Oh  Bridal  Bell,  lone  Bridal  Bell ! 
Thou  hast  a  voice  for  sorrow's  knell, 
Yet  sing'st  not  of  this  alone, 
Thou  hast  for  joy  a  final  tone, 
For  fabrics  beautiful  and  rare, 
Fashioned  of  plighted  vows  and  prayer, 
Whose  ties  were  never  stripped  of  bloom, 
Whose  frame  no  rage  of  rust  could  doom, 
For  every  part  of  gold  was  wrought, 
Each  coigne  with  priceless  jewels  fraught, 
Whence  flash  the  diamond  rays  of  Love, 
Pure  pearls  of  Trust  and  Faith  above, 
And  every  flower  an  immortelle, 
Beneath  thy  belfry,  Bridal  Bell. 


MY  GARDEN 

Once  I'd  have  called  this  garden,  lonely, 

This  dreamy  garden,  full  of  songs, 

Of  roses,  birds  and  just  "we"  only; 

But  I  have  learned  more  of  earth's  wrongs, 

Have  learned  that  souls  have  starved  for  these 

Sweet  nature  things,  that  are  my  part; 

Oh,  oh,  to  paint  on  every  heart, 

The  sweet,  glad  blessedness  of  peace ! 


[331] 


ONE  LITTLE  GLIMPSE  OF  HEAVEN 

One  thought  of  holy  ecstasy 

Breaks  on  my  spirit's  sight 
Like  a  bright,  flashing  meteor 

Athwart  the  skies  at  night ; 
'Tis  not  of  all  the  glory 

Eternity  may  hold, 
That  centuries  unmeasured 

Shall  wondrously  unfold; 
'Tis  not  of  all  the  music 

Angelic  choirs  shall  pour, 
Like  rolling  ocean  billows, 

To  break  on  either  shore ; 
My  thoughts  turn  back  bewildered, 

Too  weak  to  comprehend 
The  unsolved  mighty  problem 

Of  the  never-ending  end; 
But  sometimes  vaguely,  dimly, 

I  seem  to  realize 
One  glimpse  of  all  the  glory 

Unseen  by  mortal  eyes ; 
One  burst  of  matchless  music, 

That  souls  redeemed  hath  stirred; 
One  sweep  of  that  grand  melody, 

That  ear  hath  never  heard. 
Thou  saint,  who  circling  cycles 

Hath  borne  through  seas  of  bliss, 
I  ask  not  of  your  triumphs 

From  such  a  world  as  this ; 
But  thou,  exultant  spirit, 

Freed  from  a  world  of  woe, 
Who  the  first  glimpse  of  Heaven 

Hath  journeyed  out  to  know, 
Tell  me  what  thrill  of  rapture, 

Of  happiness  divine, 

[332] 


Hath  thrilled  and  swayed  and  overflowed 

That  human  heart  of  thine  ? 
The  dungeon  bars  behind  thee, 

The  palace  gates  before, 
Thou,  entering  to  the  presence 

Of  God  forevermore, 
One  burst  of  Heavenly  music, 

One  flash  of  Heavenly  light, 
And  all  beyond  thee — glory, 

And  all  behind  thee — night ; 
Life's  gift  of  sin  and  misery, 

Earth's  dower  of  blight  and  ban, 
How  seem  they,  when  a  glimpse  of  Heaven 

Enters  the  heart  of  man? 
Oh,  all  the  strife  and  discord 

Of  years  that  seemed  so  long, 
The  sound  of  earthly  voices 

That  thrilled  the  world  with  song, 
The  glare  of  earthly  grandeur, 

The  pleasure  and  the  pain, 
Life  with  its  doubtful  portion 

Of  blessing  and  of  bane, 
Left  like  a  heavy  burden 

All  in  the  vanished  past, 
To  rise  above  corruption, 

A  grave-stone  at  the  last ! 
Needs  it  a  vast  forever, 

With  joy  its  grief  to  drown, 
The  power  of  endless  ages, 

To  bid  it  crumble  down? 
Oh,  when  within  the  presence 

Of  glory  and  grace, 
We  hear  archangel  trumpets, 

Behold  the  Saviour's  face, 
Before  the  crown  is  brought  us, 

Before  the  palm  we  wave, 

[333] 


Before  we  have  forgotten 
The  darkness  of  the  grave ; 

When  with  a  song  of  triumph 
The  chains  of  death  are  riven, 

The  clouds  of  years  will  melt  before, 
One  little  glimpse  of  Heaven ! 


BABY  BROTHER 

My  little  brother  sits  upon  my  knee, 
His  clear,  blue  eyes  gaze  calmly  into  mine, 
But  underneath  their  sweet  tranquillity 
A  depth  of  baby  mischief  I  define. 

Dear  little  man,  thy  journey  just  begun, 
Before  thee  lies  Life's  pathway,  long   and  wide, 
Often  through  shadows,  sometimes  in  the  sun, 
With  thorns  and  roses  strewn  on  either  side. 

My  little  brother,  let  the  world  go  wrong, 
Let  Beauty  trail  her  garments  in  the  dust, 
Lost  be  the  music  in  Life's  changing  song, 
But  let  me  never  lose  thy  love  and  trust. 


[334] 


THE  RIVER  OF  BLESSING 

Flow  gentle  river,  to  the  sea 
In  cheerful  calm  serenity, 

Nor  pause  to  question,  "Why." 
Rise  vapor,  from  the  glistening  spray 
And  take  thy  uncomplaining  way 

To  yonder  filmy  sky. 

Float  fleecy  cloud  o'er  scorching  fields 
That  now  no  vernal  fruitage  yield, 

In  sweet,  serene  content ; 
Fall,  gentle  rain,  o'er  field  and  flood, 
Nor  fret  that  for  so  little  good 

Each  tiny  drop  is  spent. 

Bloom,  thirsty  land  and  barren  shore, 
Life-giving  drops  like  blessings  pour 

From  wide-flung  gates; 
Smile,  gentle  river,  many  a  gem 
In  Nature's  glittering  diadem 

Your  brow  awaits. 


[335] 


A  SUMMER  FRIENDSHIP 

Think  not,  my  friend,  our  friendship  of  a  season 
Will  with  the  golden  Summer  be  forgot; 
Truth  hath  a  grander  thought, 
Higher  than  human  fancy,  time  or  reason; 
God  writes,  "Forget  Me  not." 

For  God,  who  in  His  wisdom,  love  and  pity, 

Led  us  to  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 

To  clasp  glad  hands,  so  soon  to  say  good-byes, 

Is  leading  both  to  that  eternal  city 

Where  friendship  never  dies. 

We've  known  each  other,  we  are  friends  though  parted, 

Heaven  is  our  meeting  place 

From  life's  long  journey;  standing  face  to  face 

We  shall  recall  a  Summer,  happy-hearted 

With  friendship's  holy  grace. 

When  we  shall  revel  in  the  sacred  beauties 
Of  a  bright  Summer-time  that  never  ends, 
I  think  we  will  be  glad  that  we  were  friends 
Through  one  brief  earthly  Summer's  joys  and  duties, 
Then  to  our  Maker  will  our  praise  ascend. 

Let  us  not  count  our  Summer  friendship  ended, 
I  do  not  think  God  means  it  to  be  so, 
His  budding  plans  unfinished  here  below 
Are  just  begun;  what  His  great  mind  intended 
Eternity  will  show. 


[336] 


LOVE'S  PETITION 

A  sharper  or  more  bitter  sorrow  prove, — 
Hath  Fate  a  keener  thrust, 
Than  when  his  dart  reveals  that  one  we  love 
We  cannot  trust? 

Is  there  one  thing  too  hard  for  God  to  do, 
One  foe  (save  this)  too  strong  for  Him  to  kill, 
To  make  the  evil,  good ;  the  false  heart,  true, 
Against  its  will? 

Out  of  the  dark,  dark  earth  white  lilies  bloom, 
Faith  sings,  sometime,  somewhere,  . 
Hope  springs  immortal  from  her  winter  tomb, 
Sin  only  is  despair. 

But  is  the  falsity  of  those  we  love 
Unfelt,  O  Christ,  by  Thee! 
Our  sin,  alas,  was  this  the  anguish  of 
Gethsemane  ? 

Then  send,  O  heaven,  when  words  are  mockeries, 
Strong  angels  from  thy  throne 
To  where  in  dark,  unseen  Gethsemane, 
Love  prays  alone. 


[337] 


FROM  THE  CITY  OF  THE  LIVING 
TO  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD 

'Tis  the  tramp  of  mighty  nations 
Borne  across  the  surging  sea, 
'Tis  the  tread  of  martialed  armies 
Echoed  through  immensity; 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
Hark!  I  hear  their  heavy  tread, 

From  the  city  of  the  living 

To  the  city  of  the  dead. 

'Tis  the  tolling  bell's  low  dirges, 

Borne  aloft  on  every  breeze, 

Rolling  on  in  solemn  surges 

Over  mountains,  plains,  and  seas, 

Tolling,  tolling,  softly  tolling 

While  the  short,  swift  years  have  fled, 

From  the  city  of  the  living 

To  the  city  of  the  dead. 

From  old  ocean's  rock-ribbed  islands, 
From  Sahara's  parching  floors, 
From  fair  Scotia's  heath-clad  highlands, 
Or  from  Iceland's  frozen  shores, 
Rolls  that  march  in  solemn  measure 
While  the  hosts  of  earth  are  led 

From  the  city  of  the  living 

To  the  city  of  the  dead. 

Over  Egypt's  tombs  and  temples, 
Over  ashen  Indian  braves, 
Over  England's  ivied  abbeys, 
Over  old  Peruvian  graves, 
Rolls  the  dirge  that  sadly  follows 
Each  unto  his  silent  bed 

From  the  city  of  the  living 

To  the  city  of  the  dead. 

[338] 


Not  a  day  but  hears  its  sadness 
Not  a  home  but  knows  its  sound, 
Not  a  town  aglow  with  gladness 
With  no  graveyard's  sacred  ground, 
Life  en  wrapt  with  brightest  promise, 
Hush!  the  last  decree  is  said 

From  the  city  of  the  living 

To  the  city  of  the  dead. 

When  shall  life's  long  march  be  over, 
When  shall  death's  grim  victors  halt, 
When  shall  requiems  roll  no  longer 
O'er  cold  urn  or  chiseled  vault, 
When  shall  falling  clods  be  silent, 
When  the  last  sad  rite  be  read, 

From  the  city  of  the  living 

To  the  city  of  the  dead? 

Not  till  all  these  streets  are  lonely, 
Not  till  vacant  temples  stand, 
Not  till  homes  and  shops  are  empty 
Over  every  clime  and  land, 
Not  till  none  are  left  to  sorrow, 
Listening  to  the  ceaseless  tread 

From  the  city  of  the  living 

To  the  city  of  the  dead. 

Traveling  to  that  silent  city, 
One  by  one  to  be  forgot, 
Would  we  not  lose  heart  and  courage, 
Hope  and  purpose — were  it  not 
For  our  Father's  loving  mercy, 
Like  the  golden  sunshine  shed 
On  the  city  of  the  living 
And  the  city  of  the  dead? 


[339] 


THE  ANSWER 

Not  all  unanswered  now — the  question  of  my  soul 

Asked  of  the  cliff's  age-furrowed  brow, 

Lost  in  the  billow's  roll; 

For  softer,  grander  than  human  speech 

Are  the  answering  thoughts  that  soothe  and  teach, 

Thoughts  launched  by  God,  like  sea-weed  thrown 

On  the  restless  waves  of  life's  great  unknown, 

Cast  up  on  life's  wave-washed  beach. 

Pure,  calm,  as  a  dove  to  its  sheltered  nest 

My  answer  came  on  the  wave's  white  crest. 

The  question:    (This  was  the  troubled  thing — 

A  mourning  dove  with  a  broken  wing.) 

Tell  me,  oh  billows,  that  roll  on  roll 

Speak  more  than  all  things  to  the  human  soul! 

Why  must  one  spirit  feel  every  dart 

That  has  rent  the  body  or  pierced  the  heart, 

Mental  and  physical,  heart  and  brain, 

Is  there  left  one  link  in  life's  jeweled  chain 

That  has  not  quivered  with  human  pain? 

The  answer:     (This  was  the  heavenly  thing — 
A  peaceful  dove  with  a  jeweled  wing 
That  fluttered  down  from  the  billow's  crest 
And  crossed  its  wings  on  a  troubled  breast.) 
"Thou  art  given  the  priceless,  jeweled  key 
That  unlocks  the  great  heart  of  humanity, 
Thou  hast  felt  their  labor,  their  strife,  their  pain 
Their  weary  heartaches,  their  grief  and  care, 
Their  bitter  struggles  and  dark  despair; 
Let  not  one  knock  at  thy  heart  in  vain." 


[340] 


O  little  dove  with  thy  folded  wings ! 

O  billows  that  utter  such  wondrous  things ! 

Ye  are  thoughts  from  God;  let  him  send  at  choice 

The  ocean  thunder,  the  still  small  voice; 

If  they  speak  from  One  who  alone  can  know 

The  height  and  the  depth  of  our  human  woe; 

Who  has  felt  each  pang  of  our  mortal  breath, 

Sin's  serpent  fang  and  the  night  of  death, 

And  Who  o'er  the  waves  of  Life's  troubled  sea 

Calls  unto  the  suffering:    "Come  unto  Me." 

Touched  with  His  compassion  for  sin  and  pain, 

In  a  world  that  is  starving  for  sympathy, 

Where  every  heart  knoweth  its  misery, 

May  life's  hard  lessons  be  not  in  vain ; 

Content  if  they  teach  me  one  noble  song 

That  shall  lift  one  life  from  the  wrecks  of  wrong. 


THE  FROST 

It  came  on  a  blossomy  night  of  Spring, 

The  blight,  the  blast,  the  frost; 

It  touched  the  blooms  with  its  icy  wing, 

Alas,  for  the  Summer's  promised  fruit ! 

The  morning  dawned  on  those  blighted  blooms, 

They  were  fragrant  still  and  fair, 

But  the  hand  of  death  had  been  there, 

Nor  their  tiny  hearts  did  spare; 

Alas,  for  the  life  whose  heart  is  dead, 

As  the  blighted  blossoms  that  hang  o'erhead ! 

Alas,  for  the  branches  bleak  and  bare ! 


[341] 


SONG 

There  are  shadows  in  the  sunshine, 
Poison  in  the  roses'  breath, 
Nature  with  her  bridal  garlands 
Twines  the  faded  flowers  of  death, 
Tones  of  sorrow,  low  and  plaintive, 
Tremble  through  life's  merry  waltz, 
Since  the  morn  a  warning  angel 
Whispered  gently,  "He  is  false." 

Still  my  lips  repeat  the  question, 
"Tell  me,  is  the  message  true, 
When  the  sunshine  still  is  golden, 
Earth  so  glad  and  skies  so  blue; 
Can  it  be  that  you  are  faithless  ?  " 
'Gainst  the  thought  my  soul  revolts, 
Yet  it  was  an  angel  whispered, 
Softly,  gently,  "He  is  false." 

Would  he  blight  my  youth's  fair  beauty 
Just  to  feed  the  basest  pride, 
Pluck  my  love's  half-opened  rose-bud, 
Soon,  so  soon  to  cast  aside; 
Teach  my  soul  all  men  are  base; 
Love  and  honor — sculptured  vaults — 
All  without  made  fair  and  lovely, 
All  within  made  dark  and  false? 


[342] 


If  within  my  woman's  bosom 
There  were  found  no  faith  in  man, 
If  my  heart's  once  joyous  Eden, 
Languished  under  blight  and  ban; 
Could  you  stand  acquitted,  guiltless, 
Of  my  young  heart's  direst  faults, 
At  an  upper  bar  of  justice, 
You  who  taught  me  to  be  false  ? 

List!     It  was  an  angel  whisper 

Sent  to  comfort  and  reprove, 

Saying:  "Wronged  and  erring  doubter, 

Truth  is  truth  and  love  is  love." 

Angel  tones  are  sweetly  drowning 

Death's   grim   dirge   and   life's   wild   waltz 

Pouring  out  in  deepest  music, 

God  is  true,  though  man  be  false. 


PEACE,  TROUBLED  SOUL— SONG 

Peace,  troubled  Soul,  peace  troubled  Soul, 
Over  life's  sea  the  angry  tempests  gather, 
Roll  billows  roll,  roll  billows  roll, 
Vain  be  thy  strife,  unnoticed  thine  endeavor ; 
Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
Rest,  sweetly  rest,  to  silence  awed, 
Rest  thou  in  peace  with  Heaven, 
Earth  hath  no  refuge  given, 
Torn,  tossed  and  tempest  driven, 
Rest  thou  in  God. 


[343] 


SONG  OF  THE  WIND 

0  Wind!    in  all  thy  wingless  flight, 
What  treasure  hast  thou  brought, 

And  com'st  thou  through  the  solemn  night 
With  good  or  evil  fraught? 

1  hear  the  gladness  in  thy  song, 
The  sadness  in  thy  wail ; 

As  swift  thou  wing'st  thy  flight  along 
O'er  city,  hill  and  vale. 

The  stately  oaks  before  thee  bow, 

And  make  obeisance  low, 
Oh,  tell  me,  Wind,  whence  comest  thou 

And  whither  dost  thou  go? 

The  shadows  on  my  chamber  floor 

Were  playing  hide  and  seek, 
When  through  the  storm's  wild  rush  and  roar 

The  Wind's  voice  seemed  to  speak; 

And  in  a  deeper,  mysterious  tone 

Of  solemn  melody, 
Told  where  its  viewless  wings  had  flown, 

And  sang  this  song  to  me : 

"I  crossed  the  ocean's  broad  expanse, 

I  wrecked  the  ships  at  sea, 
I  fanned  the  wavelets  where  they  dance 
To  music  wild  and  free. 

I  echoed  through  the  lonely  caves, 

And  played  among  the  rocks ; 
I  flung  the  sea-weed  from  the  waves, 

And  chased  the  gulls  in  flocks. 

[344] 


I  rose  above  the  sandy  beach 

And  many  a  jagged  cliff, 
Where,  far  beyond  the  breakers'  reach, 

Their  giant  heads  they  lift. 

I  tossed  the  desert's  burning  sands 
O'er  many  an  unknown  tomb, 

I  saw  the  helpless  caravans 
Sink  'neath  the  dread  simoon. 

I  rustled  through  the  stately  palms, 

On  many  a  southern  isle; 
I  sang  my  sweet  and  mournful  psalms 

Where  tropic  sunbeams  smile. 

I  roamed  through  Nature's  spacious  park, 
Through  scenes  sublime  and  strange; 

I  roared  through  canons  deep  and  dark 
In  many  a  rocky  range. 

I  kissed  the  flowers  on  sunny  days, 
And  waved  the  golden  grain, 

And  sang  my  morning  hymns  of  praise 
Through  many  a  leafy  fane. 

I  frolicked  with  the  pure  snowflakes, 

I  laughed  among  the  trees; 
And  sang  above  the  mountain  lakes 

My  sweetest  symphonies. 

Millions  of  brooklets  join  with  mine 
Their  faintly  murmured  chants, 

Where  through  the  forest's  dim  outline 
The  flickering  shadows  dance. 


[  345  ] 


And  where  the  mighty  river  rolls 

Forever  to  the  sea, 
'Neath  sunlit-skies  and  starry  scrolls, 

We  blend  our  melody. 

From  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west, 

I  wander  wild  and  free; 
I  have  no  wish  to  stop  and  rest, 

My  home  is  land  and  sea. 

Millions  of  years  have  heard  my  voice, 
And  many  more  shall  know 

Sorrow  and  gladness,  gain  and  loss, 
Ere  I  shall  cease  to  blow. 

Not  useless,  aimless,  is  my  course, 
For  He  whose  righteous  will 

Rules  all  this  boundless  universe, 
Can  bid  the  winds  be  still. 

For  He  at  whose  divine  command 
I  take  my  wandering  flight, 

O'er  ocean  waste,  or  desert  sand, 
Marks  out  my  path  aright." 


[346] 


SUPPOSE 

Suppose  the  sunbeams  should  say  to  the  roses, 
"You  are  wasting  your  time,  oh,  what  are  you  worth? 
Each  useless  rosebud  the  morn  uncloses 
Should  bloom  a  sunbeam  to  light  the  earth." 

And  the  roses,  drooping  their  heads  of  beauty, 

Should  wither  and  die  ere  the  day  began, 

And  say,  "Oh,  the  sunbeams  can  do  their  duty, 

We  have  no  part  in  the  world's  great  plan !" 

But  the  roses  were  never  made  for  shining, 

Any  more  tnan  the  sunbeams  to  breathe  perfume; 

So  each,  without  murmuring  or  repining, 

Does  its  part  in  dispelling  earthly  gloom. 

O  the  roses!  the  roses!  they  cannot  lighten 
A  hemisphere  with  a  flood  of  light, 
But  they  do  their  best  in  the  world  to  brighten 
Gloom  that  is  darker  than  earthly  night. 


DEVELOPMENT 

A  naturalist  watched  with  a  wondering  awe, 
A  winged  beauty  struggling  its  way  to  the  light; 
Such  strivings,  and  pantings,  and  strugglings,  he  saw 
Then,  gorgeous  wings  spread,  without  blemish  or  flaw. 

Another  cramped  life  was  in  strife  to  expand, 
The  naturalist  opened  the  close,  cruel  door, 
And  the  inmate  crept  out  by  the  help  of  his  hand; 
But  a  colorless  creature  the  naturalist  scanned. 

Dull,  lusterless  wings,  undeveloped,  and  small, 
And  the  naturalist  cried :   "Even  so  'tis  with  man, 
We  must  struggle  and  strive,  we  must  rise  when  we  fall, 
Life's  a  struggle  fqr  light,  or  'tis  nothing  at  all!" 

[347] 


THE  RESCUER'S  REQUEST 

Listen,  did  you  not  hear  the  cry, 
That  strong,  weak  wail  of  agony, 

Of  a  drowning,  struggling  soul? 
Oh,  could  I  still  to  the  rescue  fly, 
To  live  with  them  or  with  them  to  die 
Ere  the  waters  o'er  them  roll! 

Hark!  'tis  the  cry  of  a  last  despair, 

Lost,  lost,  on  the  merciless  air; 

Tell  me,  oh  friends,  midst  the  storm  and  flood, 

Did  I  do  all  that  I  could? 

My  cold  lips  prayed  for  Herculean  power 

In  the  frightful  spell  of  that  awful  hour, 

When  frightened  face  and  when  failing  form 

Were  all  I  saw  in  the  raging  storm; 

When  the  strong  grew  weak  and  the  weak  grew  strong, 

And  the  moments  were  years,  unsolved  and  long; 

When  faces  were  turned  to  me 

Frozen  and  white  in  their  agony. 

There  was  one  who  sought  me  with  pleading  eyes, 

God  only  knows  where  his  pale  form  lies. 

There  was  one  who  reached  out  her  hands  in  vain, 

Can  I  ever  forget  that  cry  of  pain, 

While  her  long,  bright  tresses,  like  seaweed  strands, 

Floated  out  as  she  lifted  those  hopeless  hands! 

And  a  child's  sweet,  silent  face  went  down, 

And  that  hoary  head  with  its  glory  crown; 

While  the  scoffer's  curse  and  the  Christian's  prayer 

Mingled  together  on  the  burdened  air; 

Is  there  on  my  hands  one  drop  of  blood? 

Tell  me,  did  I  do  all  I  could? 


[348] 


0  friends,  you  tell  me  no  other  arm 

Like  mine  drew  back  from  impending  harm 

The  crowd  who  rushed  from  the  blazing  deck, 

Or  the  crew  who  clung  to  the  shattered  wreck ; 

No  other  hand  was  so  strong  to  save 

The  struggling  souls  from  a  watery  grave ; 

No  other  dared  like  myself  to  grasp 

Chill  forms  from  the  water's  icy  clasp, 

Nor  sacrificed  on  that  sinking  deck 

Their  life's  young  strength  to  a  hopeless  wreck! 

Oh,  tell  me  no  more  where  another  failed, 

Where  their  strength  gave  way  or  their  courage  quailed ; 

There  were  fellow-men  in  that  struggling  storm, 

With  hope  aglow  and  with  life-blood  warm 

For  perishing  manhood  and  womanhood; 

Did  I  do  all  that  I  could? 

If  one  was  lost  whom  I  might  have  saved. 

What  care  I  for  aught  that  I  bore  or  braved, 

If  a  human  cry  rung  on  the  air, 

That  I  might  have  calmed  in  its  last  despair? 

Speak  not  of  the  few  whom  these  hands  have  saved ; 

Tell  not  of  the  perils  I  met  and  braved ; 

The  cries  of  the  drowning  disturb  my  rest, 

Tell  me,  oh,  this  is  my  one  request, 

That  no  sinking  soul  on  the  waters  tossed, 

Whom  I  might  have  saved,  was  lost! 

Oh,  I  can  hear  the  drowning  call, 

1  could  not  save  them  all. 

They  sink,  I  hear  it,  that  sickening  thud ; 
My  God,  did  I  do  all  that  I  could? 


[349] 


THE  YEARS  OF  OUR  LIVES 

We  spend  our  lives  as  a  tale  that  is  told  in  a  lonely  watch  of  the 

night, 

Like  a  changing  story  written  down  on  the  pages,  pure  and  white, 
By  a  flickering  taper  giving  out  its  weak,  uncertain  light. 

The  days  of  our  years,  ah!  these  the  links  of  which  the  chain 

is  wrought, 
With  the  heart's  deep  feeling  intertwined  and  the  mind's 

unceasing  thought, 
Each  hath  its  romance  interwove  with  its  own  peculiar  plot. 

They  are  strangest  stories,  these  lives  of  ours,  that  our  aching 

hands  have  penned, 
Success  and  failure,  joy  and  grief,  through  their  mystical  mazes 

blend, 
Strength,  labor,  and  sorrow,  their  broken  thread  from  beginning 

unto  the  end. 

O,  many  a  blot  and  sad  mistake  do  the  pages  white  contain, 
And  the  things  we  are  writing  with  feeble  hands,  we  may  never 

erase  again, 
'Till  our  living  chapters  are  brought  to  light  from  the  dark  where 

they  long  have  lain ! 

Many  critic  eyes  on  the  story  gaze,  but  they  cannot  read  the  whole, 

Not  'till  the  hidden  histories  shall  the  hand  of  God  unroll, 

Not  'till  the  eye  of  God  shall  read  and  perfect  the  blotted  scroll. 

He  shall  correct  the  sad  mistakes  we  have  thoughtlessly  put 

therein, 

He  shall  the  hateful  blots  erase,  till  as  white  as  when  we  begin, 
Nor  cast  the  work  of  our  lives  aside  for  aught  but  uncanceled 

sin. 


[350] 


Then  shall  the  loving  angels  read,  with  their  vision  deep  and  clear, 
The  beautiful,  faultless  chapters  kept  of  every  erring  year, 
When  in  the  archives  of  all  time,  our  humble  lives  shall  appear. 


EXISTENCE 

We  waken  vaguely,  dreamily  at  first,  as  from  a  slumber  deep, 
Waken  to  feel,  to  think,  to  love,  to  hate,  to  smile  and  weep; 
Waken  to  sin  and  sorrow,  to  a  widening  view 

Of  many  things  strange,  wonderful  and  new; 
We  take  unsought  what  life  hath  dared  to  give, 

To  be,  to  do,  to  live; 
We  question  our  existence,  in  reply 

They  tell  us  we  must  die. 

We  learn  of  God  and  man,  of  earth  and  heaven, 

Of  evil  punished  and  of  wrong  forgiven, 

Of  an  immortal  life  beyond  the  grave, 

Of  One  from  heaven  who  came  on  earth  to  save; 

We  doubt  or  trust, 

We  fall  asleep,  we  slumber,  we  are  dust. 
And  is  this  all,  O  God,  this  petty  play, 

This  drama  of  a  day ; 
This  tragedy  enacted  o'er  and  o'er 
Of  sin  and  grief  and  pain  and  little  more? 
In  Thy  great  heart,  safe  kept  from  wrangling  strife, 
Thou  hast  the  keys  of  life ; 
Thine  to  explain  the  things  half-understood. 

Evil  and  good 
Rise  up  before  us  and  demand  our  powers ; 

The  choice  is  ours. 


[351] 


TWILIGHT  THOUGHTS 

I  am  sitting  in  the  gloaming, 

In  the  gloaming  all  alone; 
Listening  only  to  the  moaning 

Of  the  organ's  plaintive  tone ; 
Hearing  but  the  distant  footsteps 

Of  the  ages  that  have  fled ; 
Seeing  but  the  shadowy  faces 

Of  the  nations  long  since  dead. 

Long,  long  years  ago  they  wandered 

In  the  paths  we  daily  tread, 
For  a  little  while  they  pondered 

On  the  living  and  the  dead ; 
Then  they  passed  away  in  silence 

To  the  cities  of  the  dumb; 
Making  way  for  those  who  followed, 

Making  room  for  us  to  come. 

O  remote  and  distant  ages, 

Unknown  tribes  or  empires  grand ; 
Whether  savages  or  sages, 

Ye  have  written  on  the  sand, 
And  the  sands  of  time  dissolving 

Into  life's  great  ocean  tossed, 
Year  by  year  grow  faint  and  fainter, 

Few  indeed  are  never  lost. 

These,  like  monuments  are  standing, 
O'er  the  tombs  of  millions  more; 

Names  that  age  to  age  are  handing, 
Landmarks  left  along  the  shore 


[352] 


Teaching  us  how  brief  our  stations, 
How  our  glories  must  decay, 

Pointing  to  the  generations 
Who  have  lived  and  passed  away. 

So  I'm  sitting  in  the  gloaming, 

In  the  gloaming  all  alone; 
While  my  phantom  thoughts  are  roaming 

Through  the  ages  that  have  flown; 
Musing  here  in  solemn  silence 

By  the  landmarks  on  the  shore, 
How  each  moment  bears  us  farther 

From  the  great  and  good  of  yore. 

Farther  from  their  grief  and  glory, 

Nearer  to  the  close  of  ours ; 
Farther  from  their  song  and  story, 

Nearer  to  our  fading  flowers; 
For  our  feet  are  daily  slipping, 

Slipping  from  life's  changing  stage; 
Making  room  for  nations  coming, 

Nations  of  a  later  age. 


[353] 


CALIFORNIA'S  WOODLANDS 

Ye  timbered  pastures,  bright  with  Autumn  splendor, 

Yet  softened  with  the  haze  by  distance  lent, 

What  hallowed  memories,  sublime  and  tender, 

Are  with  your  glories  blent! 

Thrilled  by  the  passing  touch  of  magic  fingers, 

From  pathless  thicket  to  sky-reaching  dome, 

A  peaceful  solace  ever  gently  lingers 

And  breathes  of  home. 

Home!  that  one  spot,  wherever  situated, 

Clothed  with  a  grace  no  other  clime  may  share, 

From  her  bright  precincts,  by  her  love  created, 

Spring  fadeless  wreaths  that  later  years  shall  wear; 

Around  her  lowliest  paths  of  daily  duty 

Gush  rippling  fountains,  from  Youth's  glistening  sands 

Flow  down  the  years,  and  dim  with  heaven-born  beauty, 

The  glare  and  glitter  of  all  other  lands. 

So  in  your  shades,  I  love  to  muse  and  ponder 

On  moments  yet  to  be, 

When  no  more  fresh  to  Youth's  awakening  wonder, 

Your  joys  shall  steal  the  shades  of  memory. 

In  your  still  aisles  and  forest  sanctuaries, 

Sacred  as  with  the  silent  hush  of  prayer, 

Spring  for  her  farewell  kiss  the  longer  tarries 

On  Summer's  golden  stair; 

And  here  old  Autumn  paints  in  rich  profusion 

Madrofia  berries  and  bright  leaves  of  flame, 

Then  steals  from  out  the  forest's  sweet  seclusion, 

Telling  not  whence  he  goes,  or  whence  he  came. 

Beneath  those  gnarled  old  trees,  antique  and  hoary, 

Sear  leaves  have  echoed  to  the  Indian's  tread, 

And  lovers  oft  have  told  the  old-time  story, 

While  birds  sang  overhead. 


[354] 


When  Spring  with  fragrant  breath  and  flower- wreathed  tresses 

Returns  with  dewdrops  in  her  silken  locks, 

With  lavish  hands  the  frozen  woods  she  blesses 

And  the  mad  cataracts  leap  o'er  the  rocks; 

The  tiny  lake  beneath  the  oak's  gaunt  branches 

Shall  overflow  her  rim, 

While  eddying  circles  whirl  in  graceful  dances, 

And  dainty  violets  wreathe  her  mossy  brim; 

Then  the  proud  fir  in  vernal  gladness  carries 

Above  her  dark  green  branches,  lighter  plumes, 

The  forests  change  their  bright  madrona  berries 

For  manzanita  blooms. 

But  now  they  lie  in  Autumn's  pensive  glory, 

Like  the  bright  sunset  of  a  shorter  day 

That  only  burns  to  end  the  beauteous  story 

And  pass  away; 

So  all  these  gleaming  flames  of  gold  and  amber 

A  sad,  sweet  theme  pervades, 

Down  shining  steeps,  the  gloaming  shadows  clamber 

And  the  bright  sunset  fades; 

So  o'er  these  Autumn  woods,  now  robed  in  splendor, 

Winter  will  spread  his  pall; 

The  lonely  pines  in  sighings  soft  and  tender 

Shall  mourn  their  fall. 


[355] 


THE  UNATTAINED 
(A  Sunset  Harmony.) 

My  friend  come  with  me  to  the  ferny  brink 

Of  this  clear  spring  shut  in  by  clustering  trees 

And  from  my  cup  the  crystal  coolness  drink, 

Is  this  the  end  to  live,  to  love,  to  think, 

And  thus  to  quench  that  still  unsatisfied  and  longing  thirst 

For  sky-flight — 'till  the  bird  its  cage  would  burst 

Unsoothed  by  things  like  these, — 

Siesta,  friendship,  thought,  stagnation  gained? 

Through  these  still  trees 

I  catch  a  soul-glimpse  of  those  sunset  towers,  free  and  unchained, 

A  glimpse  of  silver  seas  and  golden  shores 

And  city  turrets, — thrones  where  thought  has  reigned — 

I  almost  hear  the  plash  of  amber  oars, 

I  almost  see  the  thrill  of  fluttering  sails, 

But  not  with  earthly  eyes. 

Too  far  it  lies 

In  the  dim  distance  of  the  unattained. 

Somewhere  far  back 

Sweet  visions  of  a  sunrise  threw  their  glow, 

Across  the  path  my  child- faith  longed  to  go; 

But  that  is  gone,  sometimes  I  half  forget 

That  brightening  dawn 

Of  hope  and  faith  and  high  ambition's  flight. 

For  life  goes  on  and  on, 

A  level  plain,  a  toilsome  beaten  track, 

With  here  and  there  a  wood,  a  sheltered  spring, 

A  little  flower  to  bloom,  a  bird  to  sing. 

But  I  will  not  look  back, 

No:  better  forward  to  that  grand  eclipse 

Of  all  that  man  has  sought  for  or  has  gained, 

The  sunset  vision  of  the  unattained. 


[356 


What  though  my  feet  had  reached  the  utmost  round 

Of  all  my  early  hopes,  and  plans,  and  aims, 

Still  earthly  ladders  reach  but  earthly  ground; 

And  though  my  heart  is  pained 

So  often,  that  I  was  too  weak  to  climb 

To  those  loved  heights  'till  passed  the  golden  time; 

Earthward  sometimes  there  is  from  Heaven  let  down, 

A  higher  path  than  man  has  ever  gained, 

Above  the  weak  acclaim  of  passing  crowds, 

Above  earth's  mountain  peaks, 

Upon  the  clouds 

For  him  who  fails  to  climb  earth's  dizzy  heights, 

Whose  patient  sweetness  is  his  only  crown. 

God  writes, 

And  from  white  cloud  scrolls  His  bright  promise  speaks, 
When  to  aspiring  souls  that  have  not  gained  their  earth  desires. 

God  lights 
His  sunset  fires  and  dims  the  glory  of  earth's  unattained. 


GREAT  FORCES 

The  thunder's  roll  attends  the  lightning's  play, 

Great  love  is  silent  and  great  grief  is  mute, 

Great  thoughts  have  in  great  acts  their  perfect  fruit; 

No  flash,  no  noise,  when  Purpose  marks  her  way; 

The  mighty  force  that  midst  the  stars  might  flash, 

From  cloud  to  cloud  in  stirring  thunder's  crash, 

Comes  down  to  earth  through  dust  and  smoke  to  move, 

In  unseen  silent  usefulness  to  prove 

Her  greatness,  highest,  noblest,  grandest  when 

She  bears  the  humble  messages  of  men. 


[357] 


DEFECTS 

The  surface  of  polished  metal 

Is  marred  by  a  speck  of  rust, 

And  a  lily's  pure,  white  petal 

Is  stained  by  a  touch  of  dust, 

And  the  white  bird's  wings  are  spotted 

Should  he  trail  them  once  in  the  fen, 

And  the  clear,  white  page  is  blotted 

By  one  careless  turn  of  the  pen; 

The  sculptor's  work  uplifted 
By  a  hasty  stroke  is  defaced, 
And  the  work  of  years  is  rifted 
By  a  moment's  careless  haste ; 
The  purest  in  form  or  color 
Is  spoiled  by  a  line,  a  stain, 
In  the  more  imperfect  and  duller 
Defects  do  not  show  so  plain. 

Then  learn  that  the  mind's  bright  metal 
Is  marred  by  a  touch  of  rust, 
Then  dip  not  thy  soul's  white  petal 
Once  low  in  the  mire  and  dust, 
And  trail  not  thy  wings  so  spotless 
In  the  murky  depths  of  the  fen; 
Would  the  page  of  thy  life  be  blotless, 
Then  write  with  a  careful  pen. 


[358] 


For  the  character  slowly  erected 
May  be  crushed  by  a  hasty  blow, 
And  the  symmetry  years  have  perfected 
One  moment  may  lay  it  low, 
And  the  world  that  with  look  upgazing 
Has  stared  at  thy  stainless  name, 
Perhaps  with  no  word  of  praising, 
Will  cover  thy  past  with  blame. 


U.  S.  GRANT. 

Dead!    The  swift  wires  brought  the  message, 

And  a  Nation's  grief  replied, 

Dead !    Columbia's  noblest  hero 

In  the  land  he  loved  has  died. 

He  who  braved  the  fire  of  battle, 

He  who  faced  the  storm  of  war, 

He  who  vanquished  mighty  armies, 

Earth's  most  honored  conqueror. 

Mourn  Columbia,  o'er  thy  waters 

Sounds  the  death  knell  of  thy  brave, 

Droop  thy  proud  old  flag  in  sadness, 

'Tis  the  flag  he  fought  to  save; 

He  shall  sleep  where  none  may  waken, 

In  the  land  he  loved  so  well; 

But  thy  unborn  generations 

Shall  his  deeds  of  valor  tell 

Over  Orient  lands  he  traveled, 

Foreign  nations  made  him  room, 

Heathen  empires  spread  before  him 


[359] 


Their  rich  fruitage  and  their  bloom; 
But  not  one  of  them  could  claim  him, 
O'er  the  ocean's  pathless  foam 
Faithful  vessels  bore  him  safely 
Back  again  to  friends  and  home. 
Egypt's  tombs  nor  India's  temples 
Shall  his  precious  dust  inclose; 
Nor  in  Britain's  ivied  abbeys 
Shall  our  sacred  dead  repose. 
But  his  own,  his  native  country, 
Shall  protect  his  lettered  stone; 
Proud   Columbia,   draped   in   mourning, 
Claims  her  hero  for  her  own. 
Rest  in  peace  thou  veteran  warrior, 
All  thy  victories  are  past; 
On  thy  ear  shall  no  more  thunder 
Cannon's  roar  or  trumpet's  blast. 
'Till  thy  peaceful,  slumbering  ashes, 
Resting  'neath  thy  country's  sod, 
Shall  awake  with  countless  millions 
At  the  mighty  trump  of  God. 


REMEMBER  THY  CREATOR. 

Remember  thy  Creator  in  the  bright  days  of  thy  youth, 

Ere  sins  and  sorrows  later  may  choke  the  germs  of  truth ; 

Give  to  thy  Maker's  service  thy  best  and  brightest  hours, 

Sow  not  wild  tares  and  thistles,  but  strew  the  world  with  flowers. 

Chorus. 

Come  join  our  youthful  army, 
Come  seek  to  learn  the  truth ; 
Remember  thy  Creator 
In  the  bright  days  of  youth. 

Remember  thy  Creator,  for  He  remembers  thee, 
In  countless  blessings  scattered  o'er  earth  and  sky  and  sea ; 
He  sent  His  son,  our  Saviour,  in  mercy  and  in  love, 
To  lift  the  lost  and  fallen  and  bid  them  look  above. 

Chorus. 
Come  join,  etc. 

Remember  thy  Creator  in  songs  of  grateful  praise, 

In  prayers  and  words  and  deeds  of  love,  through  all  thy  youthful 

days; 

In  lifting  up  thy  brother  as  Christ  hath  lifted  thee 
From  chains  of  death  and  bondage  to  life  and  liberty. 

Chorus. 
Come  join,  etc. 

Remember  thy  Creator  before  the  years  draw  nigh, 
When  weary  of  a  wasted  life  we  only  wait  to  die; 
He  wants  our  joyful  service  while  we  are  young  and  strong, 
A  mighty  army  marching  against  the  ranks  of  wrong. 

Chorus. 
Come  join,  etc. 

[361] 


REMEMBRANCE. 

Sometimes,  I  think,  we  never  do  forget; 

The  friendly  face,  the  word,  the  smile,  the  tear, 

May  slumber  undisturbed  for  many  a  year ; 

The  chariot  wheels  of  Memory  revolve 

And  lo,  before  us  looms  the  thing  we  deemed 

Forgotten,  though  of  which  we  one  day  dreamed 

And  had  but  slumbered  when  we  thought  it  dead. 

These  things  can  never  die,  though  lethargy 
May  wrap  them  in  its  solitude  profound; 
Yet  they  are  not  extinct,  but  wrapped  around 
With  the  dark  chrysalis — unconsciousness ; 
Till,  unexpectedly,  the  mystic  spell 
Is  broken, — Memory's  living  beams  dispel 
The  sweet  forgetfulness  that  veiled  the  past. 

We  lay  the  past  away  as  on  a  shelf 
Deep  in  the  hidden  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
And  there  are  volumes  that  we  fail  to  find; 
As  oft  a  misplaced  book  is  counted  lost 
When  only  screened  from  sight  in  some  recess, 
Each  thought  leaves  on  the  mind  its  own  impress, 
And  though  but  faintly,  not  to  be  erased. 

O  sweet  Forgetfulness  thou  art  but  brief, — 
A  trance  that  sways  the  senses  for  an  hour 
As  morning  dewdrops  glitter  on  a  flower! 


[362] 


What  would  not  millions  give  to  have  thee  stay 
To  cover  up  the  memories  Time  records 
As  with  a  burning  pen  in  loving  words 
That  e'en  though  stifled  wake  to  life  again! 

In  thoughtless  circles,  mingling  with  the  dance, 

In  haunts  of  drunkenness  and  revelry, 

We  find  them  striving  to  drown  Memory; 

Amid  the  fascination  of  the  hour 

Each  his  own  phantom  for  a  while  pursues, 

Hoping  himself  in  some  charmed  spell  to  lose 

Or  find  the  fountain  of  oblivion. 


THE    DESERT    CAMEL 

Trackless  and  bare  are  the  sands  of  the  desert 
No  verdure  adorns  them,  no  green  tree  is  there ; 
Parched  by  the  winds  and  the  hot,  scorching  sun  rays, 
Strewn  with  white  bones  lying  bleaching  and  bare, 
Like  a  vast  ocean  of  rolling  sand  surges 
Beaten  and  driven  like  waves  on  the  deep, 
Changing  and  shifting  in  wildest  confusion 
In  the  hot  wind-storms  that  over  them  sweep. 
Patiently,  slowly,  across  the  vast  ocean 
Plod  the  strong  camels,  so  faithful  and  true; 
Ships  of  the  desert,  with  merchandise  laden, 
Gladly  for  them  comes  the  harbor  in  view. 
Onward  they  toil  on  their  long,  weary  voyage, 
While  never  a  blade  of  grass  blesses  their  sight ; 
Cheered  through  the  day  by  the  songs  of  the  Arabs, 
Resting  upon  the  bare  sand-waves  by  night. 


[363] 


TO    MY    PANSIES. 

Pansies,  your  drooping,  sleepy  heads  low  bending 
Beneath  the  gentle  moon's  transforming  beams, 
While  myriad  stars  their  varied  ways  are  wending, 
Tell  me  your  dreams. 

In  deepest  shades  of  yonder  oak  and  willow 
The  breeze  has  rocked  the  baby-birds  to  sleep, 
While  o'er  your  lowly  fringed  and  dewy  pillow 
Moonbeams  and  shadows  creep. 

Have  you  no  dreams,  with  your  shy,  tender  faces 
Turned  from  the  silvery  light, 
While  on  your  heads  a  thousand  airy  graces 
Their  forms  unite? 

Do  no  weird  fancies,  steeped  in  thought  and  feeling, 
That  man  with  all  his  wisdom  never  guessed, 
Come  through  the  shadowy  moonlight  softly  stealing 
To  charm  your  rest? 

Ah !  willful  pansies,  I  would  guess  their  meaning 
And  steal  some  of  their  honeyed  sweets  away ; 
But  keep  your  pretty  secrets,  pansy  dreaming, 
An  elfin  might  betray. 

On  yonder  hills  the  blushing  Bride  of  Morning 
Scatters  the  mists  beneath  her  sunny  smile; 
The  few  faint  stars  her  cloudy  robes  adorning 
Your  eyes  beguile. 

Awake,  my  pansies,  choristers  are  singing, 
On  golden  wings  their  artless  notes  are  borne; 
Lo !  from  your  leafy  buds  in  rapture  springing 
Ye  greet  the  morn. 


364] 


Each  tiny  face  wears  some  distinct  expression 
Stamped  in  its  royal  dyes, 
Linked  with  a  universal,  shy  confession 
Of  sweet  surprise. 

Into  the  heavens  your  wondering  eyes  are  staring 
As  if  to  penetrate  their  burning  lamp 
While  mosses,  round  your  feet,  fresh  dewdrops  wearing, 
Lie  cool  and  damp. 

Into  each  beauteous  face  I  gaze  with  pleasure, 
That  no  distrust  attends; 
I  find  in  you,  what  I  have  learned  to  treasure, 
Unchanging  friends. 

Sweet  sympathy,  that  boon  of  earth's  denying, 
That  surest  balm  for  care, 

Wafting  from  upper  fonts  your  wants  supplying, 
Ye  sweetly  share. 

Ye  are  to  me  a  silent  inspiration 
With  voiceless  teachings  blent, 
I  learn  of  you  (though  in  the  lowliest  station) 
To  be  content. 


[365] 


PATHS 

The  mountain  lifts  its  burly  form 

To  Summer's  sun  and  Winter's  storm, 

And  gully,  slide  and  deep  ravine 

Give  proof  of  tempests  that  have  been, 

Yet  Spring  still  clothes  her  slopes  with  flowers 

And  grasses  bend  to  April  showers; 

Adown  the  mountain's  sides  are  wound, 

O'er  grassy  slopes  and  rocky  ground, 

From  the  great  boulders'  topmost  place 

To  the  cool  lakelet  at  its  base, 

Steep  hillside  paths  that  twist  and  turn 

Till  lost  to  sight  in  rush  or  fern. 

The  deer's  impatient  hoof  has  torn 

The  dewy  turf  at  earliest  morn, 

The  sheep  has  trodden  grass  and  weeds 

In  winding  paths  wher'er  she  feeds, 

The  goat  has  worn  his  narrow  way 

To  the  great  boulders,  grim  and  gray. 

Two  mountain  paths  among  the  rest, 

One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west, 

Wind  zigzag  down  the  steep  incline 

Through  sapling  growths  of  fir  and  pine, 

Through  rocky  gulch  and  deep  ravine, 

O'er  sunny  slopes,  huge  rocks  between, 

Through  laughing  rivulets  that  play 

In  gladness  down  their  shallow  way, 

Where  tend'rest  spring  flowers  bloom  and  fade, 

Through  light  and  shadow,  sun  and  shade; 

Till,  nearing  each  the  other's  route 

They  turn  abruptly  now  and  meet 

Where  a  great  oak  spreads  out  his  limbs 

And  chants  his  breezy  forest  hymns; 

And  now  together,  broader  grown, 


Descend  the  mountain-side  in  one. 

Thus,  though  unrealized — unseen, 

Our  life-paths  meet  and  intervene, 

Cross  and  recross  in  life's  swift  loom, 

In  shade  and  sunshine,  light  and  gloom, 

And  two,  beginning  far  apart, 

Wind  round  the  earth  from  where  they  start 

Till  meeting,  hence  through  shade  and  sun 

Two  life-paths  mingle  into  one; 

Thus,  through  the  world  in  devious  ways, 

We  journey  with  the  fleeting  days; 

Thus,  down  life's  mountain  path  descend, 

Knowing  not  whence  our  steps  shall  bend : 

Certain  of  naught  but  that  each  route, 

Each  zigzag  path,  shall  reach  the  foot. 


STARS 

There  are  stars  so  high  above  us, 

In  the  gardens  of  the  skies, 

That  to  reach  them  angel  pinions 

Must  be  given  us  to  rise; 

There  are  little  stars  around  us, 

Twinkling  in  the  dewy  grass, 

That  we  may  gather,  twining 

Wreaths  and  garlands  as  we  pass; 

Then  shall  we  scorn  these  lower  stars, 

Nor  heed  what  they  may  teach, 

Because  the  stars  above  us 

Are  too  high  for  us  to  reach? 

We  may  wreathe  earth's  common  blossoms 

Into  crowns  of  light  and  love, 

Though  we  may  not  climb  to  gather 

Those  higher  stars  above. 

[367] 


SORROWS 

They  laid  beneath  the  senseless  ground 
The  noble  brow,  the  active  limbs; 
They  softly  chanted  burial  hymns, 
There  was  no  other  sound. 

She  stood  alone,  with  head  bent  low, 
She,  the  young,  beautiful  and  good; 
Alas,  her  blighted  womanhood, 
For  she  had  loved  him  so! 

She  turned  away,  life  is  not  brief 
Whose  best  beloved  face  is  gone, 
Still,  still  to  suffer  and  live  on, 
This,  this  it  is  to  die  of  grief. 

She  saw  the  sunshine  strangely  dim, 
She  saw  bright  flowers,  no  longer  bright; 
Earth's  color,  beauty,  music,  light, 
Had  faded  out  with  him. 

She  faced  the  world  with  faltering  breath, 
She  worked,  she  smiled,  she  slept,  she  waked, 
None  saw  the  human  heart  that  ached. 
Has  earth  a  sadder  thing  than  death? 

But  evermore  she  hid  her  pain 
And  whispered  softly  to  her  grief: 
"O  heaven  is  long  and  earth  is  brief, 
Yet  shall  we  meet  again !  " 

But  once  she  met  a  face  so  grieved, 
She  half  forgot  her  heart's  dull  care 
Before  that  vision  of  despair, 
Of  hope  and  peace  bereaved. 

[368] 


She  sought  the  wounded  one  and  said : 
"I  too  have  suffered,  tell  me  all, 
Between  us  pride  shall  raise  no  wall, 
Our  hopes  alike  are  dead." 

"Sweet  sympathy  shall  soothe  our  pain, 
The  dead  are  freed  from  all  our  grief; 
Heaven  is  so  long  and  earth  so  brief, 
Yet  shall  we  meet  again." 

The  pale  lips  said,  with  quivering  breath : 
"You  have  no  shattered  shrine  of  trust, 
Truth  is  immortal  in  the  dust. 
Earth  has  a  sadder  thing  than  death ; 

Heaven  for  the  false  provides  no  open  door, 
I  have  been  wronged  and  cruelly  deceived 
By  one  I  loved  and  trusted  and  believed, 
And  we  shall  meet  no  more." 


TO  THE  FLOWERS 

Bright  little  day  stars 

Scattered  all  over  the  earth, 
Ye  drape  the  house  of  mourning 

And  ye  deck  the  hall  of  mirth. 

Ye  are  gathered  to  grace  the  ballroom, 
Ye  are  borne  to  the  house  of  prayer, 

Ye  wither  upon  the  snowy  shroud, 
Ye  fade  in  the  bride's  jeweled  hair. 

Ye  are  relics  of  bygone  ages, 

From  Eden  inherited, 
To  gladden  the  homes  of  the  living, 

And  mourn  on  the  graves  of  the  dead. 

[369] 


THE  DEPARTED  FRIEND 

And  thou  art  gone,  whose  sympathy  made  days 

Of  nervous  dread  and  silent  agony 

Into  thank-offerings  of  prayer  and  praise 

For  one  kind  friend,  one  who  was  kind  to  me ! 

Oh,  you  may  think  it  was  the  daily  acts 

Of  thoughtfulness,  all  for  my  comfort  done! 

Often  the  setting  its  bright  jewel  lacks, 

A  hollow  thing  when  sympathy  is  gone 

Is  the  cold  deed — that  lifeless  ministry 

That  freezes  all  the  springs  of  hope  in  me, 

Think  not  I  have  forgotten  one  who  cares. 


THE  RED   LINNET 

In  Spring,  when  the  roses  are  loaded  with  buds, 
And  the  oak-tree  has  put  on  her  new  leafy  dress, 
When  the  hill-slope,  just  washed  in  the  late  wintry  floods, 
Is  spread  with  a  carpet  of  blossom-starred  grass ; 

Where  sweet  baby-blue  eyes  peep  up  to  the  light, 
And  sun-drops  lie  just  as  they  dropped  from  the  sun, 
And  the  tea-flowers  lift  up  their  wee  blossoms  of  white 
By  the  shooting  stars,  saucy  and  ready  for  fun ; 

Then  comes  the  red  linnet,  so  joyous  and  gay, 
To  build  and  to  brood  in  the  oak's  scattered  shade, 
And  sing  his  sweet  ballads  on  trellis  and  spray 
Till  joy  bounds  ecstatic  o'er  meadow  and  glade. 


[370] 


THE   FORGOTTEN    GRAVE 

Beside  a  lonely  and  neglected  grave 

I  paused  and  watched  the  tangled  grasses  wave 

Mournfully  to  and  fro; 
A  rude,  unlettered  slab  still  strove  to  keep 
Its  lonely  vigil  o'er  the  grass-grown  heap 
Where  bereaved  love  had  wept  and  ceased  to  weep, 

Long  years  ago. 

The  lonely  pines  wailed  forth  a  plaintive  dirge, 
Like  the  low  moaning  of  the  ocean  surge 

Through  hollow  caves, 
Till  with  an  inner  consciousness,  I  heard 
A  voice,  that  through  the  moaning  branches  stirred 
With  the  weird  melody  in  every  word 

Of  restless  waves. 

"I  am  forgotten,  summers  bloom  and  die 
And  careless  strangers  wander  heedless  by 

My  lonely  tomb; 

But  long,  long  years  my  pulseless  heart  has  slept 
Since  love  above  its  moldering  ashes  wept, 
And  where  the  myrtle's  graceful  garlands  crept 

Rude  thistles  bloom. 

"I  am  forgotten,  yonder  marble  pile, 

Where  through  the  golden  days  tall  lilies  smile 

And  jasmines  cling, 

Is  decked  anew  each  day  with  loving  care 
While  sorrow  kneels  in  tearful  anguish  there 
And  love  bestows  in  silent,  mute  despair 

Her  offering. 


[371] 


"I  am  forgotten,  not  a  tear  doth  fall, 
Memory  no  more  my  image  shall  recall 

Or  mourn  my  doom; 
Nature's  impartial  hand  alone  doth  strew 
My  silent  bed  with  tears  of  crystal  dew 
And  sunbeams  slanting  rifted  cloud-drifts  through 

Deck  my  lone  tomb. 

"I  am  forgotten,  fragile  flowers  of  yore, 

Choked  by  the  weeds,  gave  the  brief  conflict  o'er, 

Nor  left  a  trace; 

Farther  each  year  my  tidal  wave  recedes 
From  memory's  shore,  but  no  one  heeds 
Or  calls  to  mind  my  long-forgotten  deeds, 

Lost  form  or  face. 

"I  am  forgotten,  yet  from  my  still  bed 
I  hear  the  names  of  the  illustrious  dead 

In  deathless  song ; 

Often  these  eyes  on  honor's  scroll  have  gazed 
Where  deathless  eulogies  triumphant  blazed, 
Alas !  to  pass  unhonored  and  unpraised 

From  out  the  throng. 

"I  am  forgotten,  Fate's  austere  decree 
Marked  out  for  mine  that  dreaded  destiny 

To  be  forgot; 

My  little  day  of  hope  and  fear  is  done, 
I  lie  unnoticed  now  from  sun  to  sun 
And  wail  from  thy  lone  depths,  oblivion, 

Remembered  not." 


[372] 


Among  the  pines  the  last  wild  wail  was  lost, 
But  still  the  wind  their  moaning  branches  tossed 

Against  the  sky ; 

When  in  my  heart  a  slumbering  voice  awoke, 
And,  though  no  sound  the  solemn  stillness  broke, 
From  out  my  inner  consciousness  it  spoke 

And  made  reply: 

"O  lonely  pines,  chant  your  sad  dirge  no  more, 

0  melancholy  voice,  no  more  deplore 

Thy  common  lot; 

1  stand  above  the  earth,  below  the  sky, 
Below  the  angel  choirs  that  sing  on  high, 
Above  the  unknown  dead  whose  ashes  lie 

By  man  forgot. 

"There  is  a  love  that  hath  its  vigil  kept; 
There  is  a  power,  an  eye  that  hath  not  slept 

Above  thy  dearth ; 

Mortal,  whate'er  thy  long-lost  form  may  be, 
In  the  vast  archives  of  eternity 
Still  lives  above  frail  human  memory 
Thy  name,  thy  worth." 


[373] 


CHARACTER 

Oh!  who  would  be  flattered  with  praise  undeserved 
Or  with  honors  that  are  not  his  due? 
Oh !  who  in  the  curse  of  a  hypocrite's  garb 
Would  friendship  and  fortune  pursue? 

Oh !  who  would  be  proud  of  a  virtuous  name 
That  has  not  its  fountain  within? 
Oh !  who  would  be  proud  of  a  record  of  fame 
Defiled  by  a  record  of  sin? 

Better  to  know  that  our  motives  are  right, 
Though  others  may  never  applaud; 
Better  to  see  all  our  fondest  hopes  blight 
Than  be  false  to  ourselves  or  our  God. 

Better  to  act  with  a  noble  design 

And  drink  slanders,  wormwood  and  gall, 

Than  be  sung  to  the  heavens  for  motives  sublime, 

And  know  they  were  narrow  and  small. 

Reputation  may  fade  like  a  false,  fickle  dream, 
When  we  stand  before  God's  judgment  bar, 
But  firm  shall  stand  character  (not  what  we  seem) 
But  just  what  we  truly  are. 


[374] 


MY   SANCTUM 

Have  you  seen  my  princely  sanctum  where  I  sit? 

Oh !  an  artist  or  a  queen  might  covet  it ! 

When  I  raise  my  eyes  such  perfect  pictures  meet  my  gaze, 

Not  an  artist  or  a  poet  but  would  stop  to  praise. 

Hung  about  it,  hung  above  it,  on  its  ceiling,  on  its  floor, 

Never  was  a  palace  frescoed  by  a  greater  hand  before ; 

For  the  echoing  vaults  above  me  are  all  trembling,  floating 

leaves, 

Swaying,  quivering,  where  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow  in- 
terweaves ; 

And  the  cool,  cool  depths  of  water,  ripple,  dimple  at  my  feet, 
And  fantastic  roots  are  braided  for  my  lowly  little  seat. 
Clear  is  the  untarnished  mirror  where  the  stream  is  deep, 
Where  the  grand  old  trees'  reflections  calmly  lie  asleep; 
I  can  see  my  face  within  it,  when  I  stoop, 
Framed  by  branches  that  above  me  sway  and  droop. 
And  the  pictures,  there  are  mountains,  there  are  forests  on  my 

walls, 
And  such  color,  and  such  distance,  and  such  light  upon  them 

falls. 

White  clematis  and  pale,  wild  roses  drape  the  fence, 
Wild  blackberry  vines  are  trailing  in  luxuriance. 
Drooping  low  to  kiss  the  water,  berries  ripening  in  the  sun, 
Green  leaves  dropping  on  the  streamlet's  surface  slowly,  one 

by  one, 

Have  I  music  up  above  me  in  an  unseen  gallery? 
Golden  voices  chant  a  chorus  gaily,  gladly  merrily ; 
While  somewhere  from  softening  distance  coos  the  mourn- 

dove,  plaintive,  sad; 

Is  my  own  heart  like  their  music,  never  altogether  glad? 
Are  their  voices,  saddest  voices,  stealing  softly  unaware, 
Softening  down  the  wild,  sweet  rapture  of  the  happy  songbirds 

there? 

'Tis  so  like  it,  'tis  so  like  it, — all  this  beauty's  dream 
And  those  minor  notes  that  sadden  all  the  joyous  theme ! 

[375] 


WORKERS 

Call  no  work  low  that  is  honest; 

Honest  toil  never  degrades; 

Rather  the  thief  and  the  sluggard 

Unerring  justice  upbraids; 

Scorn,  who  of  scorn  are  deserving, 
Praise,  to  whom  praises  are  due; 
Honor  to  every  true  worker 
Under  the  red,  white  and  blue. 

Praise  for  your  noble  example, 
Honor  for  idleness  spurned, 
Long  may  you  reap  the  unsullied 
Blessing  of  benefits  earned; 

Kingly  is  loyal  endeavor, 

Noble  the  task  that  is  true ; 

Duty  is  never  degrading, 

Do  what  your  hands  find  to  do. 

Into  the  mills  and  the  factories, 

Into  the  quarries  below; 

Into  the  field  and  the  forest, 

Bravely  and  cheerfully  go ; 

But  for  the  wheels  ye  are  turning, 
But  for  the  timber  ye  hew, 
But  for  your  toil  in  the  harvest, 
What  would  the  nation  pursue? 

Yours  is  a  praiseworthy  calling, 
Stain  not  its  record  by  crime ; 
'Tis  yours  to  make  it  ennobling, 
'Tis  yours  to  make  it  sublime ; 

Wield  not  the  sword  of  transgression, 

Be  noble-hearted  and  true; 

Scorn  to  be  anarchist  traitors, 

Under  the  red,  white  and  blue. 

[376] 


Justice  will  come  to  the  worthy, 
Right  at  the  last  will  prevail, 
History  grandly  repeats  it, 
Time  never  knew  it  to  fail ; 

Wait  is  the  gold  key  of  justice, 

Justice  will  open  to  you ; 

Truth  is  the  only  sure  watchword, 

Truth  will  yet  carry  you  through. 

Scorn  to  the  men  or  the  women 

Who  honest  labor  despise ; 

Near  be  the  day  in  the  future, 

When  such  false  sentiment  dies ; 
Deep  be  the  grave  where  'tis  buried, 
May  none  e'er  bring  it  to  view ; 
Servants  are  good  as  their  masters 
If  they're  as  upright  and  true. 

By  all  the  trampers  and  loafers 

Making  their  country's  worst  bane, 

By  all  the  truly  degraded 

Living  on  ill-gotten  gain ; 

Scorn,  who  of  scorn  are  deserving, 
Praise,  to  whom  praises  are  due ; 
Workers  are  nobler  than  idlers, 
Under  the  red,  white  and  blue. 


[  377  1 


THE  RAINLESS  SUMMER 

This  is  the  rainless  summer, 

Deluged  with  heat  and  light. 

Everywhere  is  the  shimmer 

Of  sunshine,  broad  and  bright ; 

But  never  the  filmy  vapors 

Wrung  from  the  panting  ground, 

Return  to  the  flowers,  in  Summer  showers, 

With  the  raindrops'  cheerful  sound. 

The  willows  bend  by  the  river 

And  their  branches,  long  and  green, 

In  the  warm  dry  breezes  shiver, 

And  dance  in  the  golden  sheen ; 

But  the  sands  are  hot  about  them, 

And  but  stagnant  pools  remain, 

Where  the  flood  has  poured  and  the  torrent  roared, 

To  the  song  of  the  falling  rain. 

The  grapevines,  green  on  their  trellis, 

Are  heavy  with  emerald  drops, 

And  a  thousand  twitterings  tell  us 

Of  birds  in  the  high  treetops ; 

But  where  are  the  tender  wildflowers, 

And  the  grasses,  bent  with  dew, 

When  the  ripples  strayed  and  the  young  lam^s  played, 

While  all  things  were  made  new? 

O,  this  is  the  year's  great  noontide, 

That  follows  her  dewy  morn, 

When  near  to  the  dusty  roadside 

Are  the  stalks  with  their  golden  corn ; 

And  down  in  the  shady  orchard, 

Half  hid  in  the  living  leaves, 

Bright  goblets  shine  with  brimming  wine, 

O'er  which  no  fond  heart  grieves. 

[378] 


O  radiant,  rainless  Summer! 

The  year's  bright  sunset  is  nigh ; 

When  Autumn,  the  gay  newcomer 

Shall  paint,  with  her  rainbow  dye 

The  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  forest ; 

To  fade  in  the  gray  twilight, 

When  rain  and  frost,  on  the  chill  wind  tossed, 

Shall  herald  the  year's  great  night. 

And  from  the  bell-towers  tolling, 

At  the  midnight  of  the  year, 

Shall  the  brazen  tongues  be  calling 

To  the  old  year's  frosty  bier ; 

"Till  the  birth  of  another  cycle 

They  publish  from  strand  to  strand, 

Where  the  streamlets  creep  and  the  swift  floods  sweep 

O'er  the  rainless  Summer  land. 


STONES  AND  JEWELS  OF  FAME 

Sometimes  I  think  if  I  should  write  an  ode, 

To  be,  by  every  idler  said  or  sung, 

The  jest  and  sport  of  every  schoolboy's  tongue, 

Common  as  stones  down-trodden  in  the  road, 

As  poets  oft  have  purchased  deathless  fame, 

I  should  not  be  so  pleased  with  my  success, 

As  if  some  little  gem  of  higher  art 

My  hand  might  pen,  the  nobler  few  to  bless, 

The  delving  mind,  the  contemplative  heart, 

Stones  for  the  many,  jewels  for  the  less. 


[379] 


TO  THE  POSSESSOR  OF  AN  UNBRIDLED 
TONGUE 

Out  of  the  grass, 

Through  flower-like  clumps  of  gladsome  words 
Springs  a  dread  serpent  whose  unerring  dart 
Is  death  to  all  the  joyous,  happy  birds, 
Of  many  a  human  heart. 

The  venomed  sting 

From  tongues  whose  hate  might  wrap  a  world 
In  white,  dread  flames  from  demon  souls  uncurled, 
While  all  the  birds,  too  terrorized  to  sing, 
Fold  their  bright  wings. 

As  from  a  serpent 

Would  I  hasten  from  the  venomed  tongue, 
Nor  look  again  upon  the  one  who  flung 
Unjust  anathemas,  to  make  the  chords 
Of  Life's  sweet  music  jar. 

Pour  forth  thy  words! 
As  I  avoid  the  serpent's  flowery  path, 
So  shall  I  circle  far, 
Aside  from  all  thy  unreasoning  wrath. 


380] 


A  DREAM  PICTURE 

A  lady  who  lived  in  a  time  gone  by 
Had  for  many  years  a  cloudy  trial 
That  cast  its  shadow  athwart  her  sky 
Making  the  hours  seem  long  by  the  dial; 

But  once  in  her  dreams  she  found  herself 
In  the  golden  light  of  a  sunny  day, 
When  a  thick  cloud  gathered  above  her  path 
And  shut  out  the  sunlight  from  her  way; 

Then  suddenly  it  broke  and  she  saw 
That  a  thousand  tiny  songbirds  there, 
With  brilliant  plumage  and  spreading  wings, 
Had  formed  the  cloud  in  the  sunny  air; 

Then  they  burst  into  song  above  her  head, 
In  such  thrilling  notes  as  they  took  their  flight, 
That  the  lady  woke  from  her  wondrous  dream, 
Weeping  for  gladness  and  delight. 

Look  up  at  the  clouds,  not  down,  to  lament 
The  shadow  that  darkens  all  earthly  things, 
And  soon  you  will  find  they  are  angels  sent, 
With  beautiful  songs  and  protecting  wings. 


[381] 


THOU  SHALT  FORGET  THY  MISERY 

Thou  shalt  forget  thy  misery, 
As  waters  that  have  passed  away, 
The  river  murmurs  as  it  speeds, 
The  cool  wave  whispers  and  recedes, 
And  tiny  mountain  brooks  repeat 
In  infant  voices  gurgling  sweet : 
"Forget,  sad  heart,  thy  misery, 
What  are  the  waters  passed  away?" 

Thou  shalt  forget  thy  misery, 

And  is  it  not  a  mockery? 

Shall  time  flow  on  nor  leave  a  trace 

Of  aching  heart  or  troubled  face, 

Of  weary  hands,  of  stumbling  feet, 

And  Life's  broad  stream  flow  clear  and  sweet, 

Nor  Mara's  bitter  waters  blend 

With  the  bright  current  to  its  end  ? 

Answer,  bright,  babbling,  boiling  brook, 
In  graceful  curve,  in  rugged  crook, 
As  days  and  weeks  and  months  go  on, 
Forever  coming,  going,  gone ; 
Is  it  an  idle  mockery, 
The  faith  that  cries  out  hopefully, 
Thou  shalt  forget  thy  misery, 
As  waters  that  have  passed  away? 


[382] 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  ROSES 

Oh  see  in  all  their  varied,  fair  unfoldings, 
The  rosebuds  opening,  opening  to  the  light ! 
White  waxen  scrolls  and  tinted  silken  lusters, 
And  crimson  velvet  folds  in  wreaths  and  clusters ; 
They  seem  all  tangled  in  my  heart's  life-story, 
Its  sadness  and  its  sweetness  and  its  glory; 
The  red  and  white  ones  mingled  in  a  cross, 
My  life's  strange  heritage  of  life  and  loss, 
With  all  the  sweetness  born  of  patient  trust, 
Born  to  sunshine  out  of  dark  and  dust; 
I  love  them  all — pink-tipped  and  amber-hued, 
But  these  my  love  with  deepest  aim  have  wooed. 


REDEMPTION  SONG 

O  the  angels  are  singing  because,  because, 
Christ  beareth  my  burden  to-day! 
From  the  tomb  in  my  heart  they  are  coming  to  roll 
The  stone  of  my  sorrow  away,  away, 
The  angels  will  roll  it  away! 

O  the  angels  are  singing  for  joy,  for  joy, 
When  Christ  took  my  burden  of  clay, 
When  He  stooped  to  lift  what  was  bearing  me  down, 
The  stone  of  my  sorrow,  to-day,  to-day, 
The  angels  will  roll  it  away! 


[383] 


THE  LONGING  OF  THE  SOUL 

(As  the  hart  panteth  after  the  waterbrooks,  so 
panteth  my  Soul  after  Thee,  O  God!— Ps.  42:2.) 

Locked  in  this  prison  house  of  clay 
My  Spirit  pants  to  be  away, 
And  mourns  its  low  estate ; 
Flutters  and  struggles  to  be  free, 
Reaches  and  longs,  O  Lord,  for  Thee! 
Why  must  it  wait? 

A  thousand  wrecks  around  me  lie, 
These  all  have  failed  to  satisfy ; 
Saviour,  I  pray 

To  anchor  on  that  blessed  shore, 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  wound  no  more, 
Through  endless  day. 

In  yonder  heaven  of  delight 
Oh,  to  awake  from  life's  dark  night, 
And  meet  my  King ! 
Behold  the  beauty  of  His  face, 
The  glory  of  His  matchless  grace 
Forever  sing! 

They  say  this  world  a  heaven  would  be 
If  purged  of  woe  and  misery, 
Of  sin  and  death ; 
Oh,  vain  such  mockeries  to  pursue, 
From  Thee,  O  God,  the  Spirit  drew 
Its  vital  breath ! 


[384] 


To  Thee  ascend  its  quenchless  fires, 
To  Thee  it  evermore  aspires ; 
Without  Thy  face 

Earth  might  take  on  the  hues  of  Heaven, 
Yet  would  the  Soul  with  longing  riven 
Pant  for  its  natal  place. 

Peace,  panting  Soul,  on  holier  sod 
Happy  forever  with  thy  God 
Thou  shalt  abide; 

Soon  these  frail  prison  bars  shall  break, 
The  fluttering  Spirit  shall  awake 
And  shall  be  satisfied. 


HOPE'S  CHORAL 

Glad  is  my  heart  this  Autumn  morn 
Though  oft  by  cruel  fortune  torn; 
Happy  I  am,  though  bitter  tears 
Have  mingled  with  the  flood  of  years ; 
Let  clouds  of  blackness  veil  my  sky, 
Hope  shall  the  gathering  storm  defy ; 
Let  tempests  howl  and  thunders  roar, 
And   surges   beat   life's   billowy   shore; 
Be  mine,  the  eagle's  dauntless  flight, 
Above  the  storm's  impending  night, 
Where  bathed  in  day's  serenest  glow, 
The  clouds  float  tranquilly  below; 
Be  mine,  the  sky-lark's  loftiest  aim, 
From  angry  storm  and  raging  main, 
To  soar  aloft  on  joyful  wing, 
Rise  far  above  the  clouds  and  sing. 


[385] 


THE  HAVEN  OF  REST 

Is  there  beyond  this  life's  narrow  horizon, 
Is  there  beyond  this  life's  ocean  distressed, 
Calm  in  the  clime  of  some  sheltering  shore, 
Where  the  storms  cease  and  the  tempests  are  o'er, 
Sky,  land  and  ocean  at  peace  evermore, 
Is  there,  oh,  is  there  a  Haven  of  Rest? 

Not  for  the  hands  that  are  trembling  and  weary, 
Not  for  the  feet  that  the  thorn-paths  have  pressed ; 
But  for  the  hearts  that  are  sickened  to  view 
Wrongs  that  the  tired  hands  can  never  undo, 
Sins,  briers,  that  scatter  the  winding  way  through 
E'en  to  the  haven,  the  Haven  of  Rest. 

Boast  we  of  courage  that  never  is  vanquished, 
Hearts  brave  and  strong  the  mad  breakers  to  breast? 
Ah !  the  chill  wavelets  will  beat  them  aside, 
Stranded  above  the  slow  ebb  of  the  tide, 
Need  we  a  pilot,  a  lamp  and  a  guide, 
Over  the  shoals  to  the  Haven  of  Rest? 

Is  there  no  haven,  no  haven  beyond  ? 

None  have  come  back  from  the  sun-setting  West. 
Oh,  have  we  watched  for  some  token  in  vain, 
Striving  our  gaze  o'er  the  billows  to  strain, 
Only  one  unfailing  promise  to  gain, 

Of  that  fair  haven,  the  Haven  of  Rest? 


[386] 


Is  it  a  flower  on  the  stormy  deep  driven, 
Crowning  the  brow  of  the  darkest  wave's  crest? 
Nearer  it  floats  'till  its  frail  form  we  hold 
Close  to  our  hearts  as  its  beauties  unfold, 
'Tis  God's  own  promise,  a  blossom  of  gold, 
Cast  out  adrift  from  the  Haven  of  Rest. 

Strong  for  the  toil  that  each  fleeting  year  bringeth, 
Work,  all  we  ask  of  life's  meager  behest, 

Cometh  a  time  when  the  strongest  arm  fails, 
Cometh  a  time  when  the  bravest  heart  quails, 
Longs  to  cast  anchor,  to  drop  the  torn  sails, 
Midst  the  green  isles  of  the  Haven  of  Rest. 

Haven  of  Happiness,  bright  port  of  promise! 
Harbor,  where  all  who  have  entered  are  blest, 

Pilot  across  life's  sea, 

Leaving  the  course  to  Thee, 

We  shall  safe  anchored  be 
Sometime  at  home  in  the  Haven  of  Rest. 

There  though  glad  feet  shall  go  swift  at  bidding, 
Idleness  never  the  tireless  hands'  guest 

Yet  shall  no  heart  complain 

Of  weary  work  and  pain, 

Of  toil  or  tears  in  vain, 
Anchored  at  last  in  the  Haven  of  Rest. 

Little  we  know  what  the  dense  fogs  are  hiding, 
Isles,  flower-encircled  and  music  caressed, 

Skies  never  veiled  by  night, 

Towers  bathed  in  fadeless  light, 

Forms  clad  in  garments  bright, 
Thronging  the  shores  of  the  Haven  of  Rest. 


[387] 


DO  THEY  THINK  OF  ME  AT  HOME? 

When  sunset  tints  the  western  skies 
With  evening's  roseate  flush, 
When  the  woodlands  lie  in  shadows 
In  the  twilight's  deepening  hush ; 
When  the  shadows  lengthen  round  the 
Lowly  cot  and  stately  dome, 
When  the  toilsome  day  is  over, 
Do  they  think  of  me  at  home? 

Do  they  think  of  me,  when  morning 
Calls  from  slumber  to  awake, 
When  the  lark  is  skimming  gaily 
O'er  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
When  the  meadows  lie  serenely 
'Neath  the  blue  ethereal  skies ; 
And  the  saucy  sprightly  bluejay 
Wakes  the  forest  with  his  cries  ? 

Do  they  think  of  me  and  miss  me, 
In  the  noontide's  glowing  heat, 
When  the  cottage  echoes  gaily 
To  the  tread  of  little  feet ; 
When  the  oriole  and  warbler 
Sing  their  merry  roundelay ; 
Do  they  think  of  me  and  miss  me 
In  the  busy,  bustling  day? 

Do  they  think  of  me  in  winter, 
When  the  falling  of  the  rain 
Makes  a  pattering  on  the  shingles, 
Trickles  down  the  window-pane; 
When  the  low  night-winds  are  whispering, 
Like  some  far-off  mournful  lyre, 
When  they  gather  in  the  evening, 
'Round  a  brightly  glowing  fire? 

[388] 


When  the  children's  merry  laughter 
Makes  the  cozy  home-nest  ring; 
Do  they  think  of  me,  I  wonder, 
When  the  evening  songs  they  sing? 
What  is  sweeter  than  that  music, 
When  their  childish  voices  raise 
In  their  songs  of  flowers  and  fancies, 
In  their  songs  of  prayer  and  praise. 

Oft  I  sit  beside  my  window, 
When  the  day's  long  march  is  o'er, 
When  the  waves  are  slowly  creeping 
O'er  the  distant  ocean's  shore ; 
And  I  wonder  as  I  sit  there, 
In  the  twilight,  all  alone, 
Do  they  pause  amid  life's  bustle 
To  think  of  me  at  home? 


[389] 


FLOWERS  AND  WEEDS 

This  fragile  hothouse  plant  of  mine 

In  perfect  bloom, 

This  flower  whose  varied  tints  combine 
The  costliest  jewel  to  outshine, 
This  native  of  some  tropic  clime, 
This  princess  of  a  royal  line, 

Ah !  would  she  own 

That  low,  coarse  weed  by  yonder  fence, 
A  cousin  to  her  excellence? 

And  yet  the  truth  must  needs  proclaim, 

With  Fate's  stern  pen ; 
The  weed,  a  thing  of  blight  and  blame, 
Bears  in  its  coarse  low  life  the  same 
Remote  and  honored  family  name, 
As  this,  my  pet  of  floral  fame ; 

With  flowers  and  men 
The  ties  of  nature  sometimes  bind 
To  rudest  natures  left  behind. 

The  honored,  virtuous  life  must  blush 

Ofttimes  in  vain, 

For  kindred  lives  whose  baseness  crush 
The  buds  of  promise  in  their  flush, 
And  make  their  names  a  funeral  hush, 
And  pure  affection's  fountains  gush, 

To  bear  a  stain ; 

Condemn  not  truth  for  error's  deeds, 
While  flowers  are  flowers  and  weeds  are  weeds. 


[390] 


AMBITION 

Virtue  or  vice,  which  shall  we  call  thy  name? 
Parent  of  wealth,  of  liberty,  of  fame; 
Author  of  crime;  shall  reason  bless  or  blame? 

Thine  offspring  are  in  number  as  the  sands, 
In  monument  to  thee,  all  triumph  stands ; 
Yet,  blood  of  innocence  is  on  thy  hands. 

Stagnation  into  frenzy,  thou  hast  turned ; 
Kindled,  in  sluggish  veins,  thy  fire  hath  burned; 
To  censure  and  to  praise  thee,  man  hath  learned. 

Read  where  thy  record  fills  the  page  of  time, 
Inspirer  of  the  cursed  Cain,  of  crime ; 
Creator  of  the  noble  and  sublime. 


LINES 

May  the  first  song  and  yet  the  last  I  sing, 
Be  of  the  sweet  bird  with  the  broken  wing 
That  struggles  in  the  red-stained  grass  to  rise, 
And  pours  its  music  into  thankless  skies; 
Be  of  the  rosebud  bright  and  fair, 
Breathing  sweet  fragrance  from  the  air; 
Be  of  the  heart  that  torn  and  wounded  lives 
Above  the  anguish  that  another  gives, 
That  lets  no  bitterness  from  all  its  wrong 
Taint  its  pure  sweetness  or  make  harsh  its  song. 


[391] 


COMING  BACK 

They  are  coming  back,  all  the  dear  lost  things, 
They  have  flown  away  on  their  silent  wings, 
Sometime,  sometime,  down  the  future's  track, 
They  are  coming  back,  they  are  coming  back  ! 

All  the  beautiful  things  that  .we  would  have  kept, 
Over  which  we  have  prayed,  over  which  we  have  wept ; 
All  the  dead,  lost  loves,  that  our  tired  hearts  lack, 
Sometime,  sometime  they  are  coming  back. 

All  the  broken  friendships,  the  sundered  ties, 
All  the  happy  voices  and  bright,  glad  eyes; 
Though  the  night  and  the  tempest  be  long  and  black, 
The  dawn  and  the  sunlight  are  coming  back. 

Then  pray,  tired  heart,  but  in  praying,  sing; 
God  taketh  not  from  thee  one  goodly  thing ; 
Thy  jewels  are  lost  on  life's  dusty  track, 
God  knows  where  they  fell,  he  can  give  them  back. 

All  thy  heart's  high  hopes,  all  thy  brave  desires, 
All  thy  soul's  deep  smothered  but  quenchless  fires, 
All  the  failures  that  come  when  we  best  have  planned, 
Sometime  we  shall  waken  and  understand. 

Sometime,  not  far  distant,  oh  heart  so  fond ! 
Somewhere,  just  above  us  and  just  beyond, 
Somehow  no  brightness  our  lives  shall  lack, 
Old  earth's  lost  jewels  are  coming  back. 


[392] 


PITY  HER  NOT 

Pity  her  not  who  so  sweetly  can  slumber, 
While  life's  delirium  rages  around, 
Sleep  that  no  vision  of  care  can  encumber, 
Slumber  unbroken  by  motion  or  sound. 

What  will  she  miss  in  the  life  of  a  woman? 
Roses  that  bloom  'midst  the  crudest  briers ; 
Maybe  a  love,  weak  and  selfish  and  human, 
Songs  all  discordant  to  heavenly  choirs. 

Pleasures,    perchance    which    she   never   yet   tasted, 
Possibly  fame,  which  she  never  can  know; 
Beauty,  like  rose  petals  scattered,  love  wasted, 
Like  their  perfume  in  a  desert  of  woe. 

You  who  have  loved  her,  to  you  is  the  sadness 

Of  that  deep  loneliness  hard  to  forget; 

You  who  have  wronged  her,  to  you  comes  the  madness, 

Unfelt  by  her,  of  remorse  and  regret. 

Pity  her  not — they  have  need  of  your  pity, 

In  life's  delirium  tossed  to  and  fro; 

In  the  calm  earth  or  the  beautiful  city, 

Naught  of  their  pain  and  unrest  can  she  know. 


[393] 


THE   HEAVENLY   MESSENGER. 

The  gates  swung  back  on  golden  hinges  turned 

Their  pearl-hewn  massive  panels  noiselessly, 

And  o'er  their  jeweled  portals  swiftly  sped 

An  angel  on  a  mission  sent. 

One  blast  of  music  followed  in  her  train, 

A  fragment  from  the  grand  eternal  swell  of  Heavenly  harmony 

that  rolled  within; 

The  gates  had  closed,  the  gateway  beautiful 
Shone  purer  than  the  stars  that  hung  beneath, 
And  still  the  sweet  notes,  that  like  singing  birds,  had  winged 

their  flight 

Into  the  ether  space,  flew  back  in  echoes  from  the  farthest  star. 
The  angel  paused  a  moment  ere  she  took 
Her  journey  through  the  cloudy  realms  of  air; 
Her  eye  was  fixed  upon  a  distant  speck,  dim  and  uncertain  in 

the  moving    shapes    that    circled    through    the  glittering 

universe ; 
Her  brow  was  draped  in  waves  of  shining  hair,  her  clear  eyes 

pierced  the  cloudy  fields  below  the  solid  planets  in  their 

rhythmic  round, 

And  gazed  undazzled  through  the  glare  of  suns, 
And  then  with  one  swift  flight  her  form  was  lost  amid  the  whirl 

of  worlds. 

The  last  bright  flames  of  sunset  had  expired, 
The  ashen  twilight,  that  had  veiled  the  hills 
Shining  deep  blue  against  the  amber  sky,  had  vanished  and 

the    dark  o'ershadowing    night    spread    like  a  spangled 

curtain  over  all, 

Spangled  with  twinkling,  gleeful,  loving,  stars; 
And  far  beneath  them  a  great  city  slept. 
A  city  with  its  pomp  and  poverty, 
A  city  where  the  guilty  and  the  good 
Met  face  to  face  amid  the  multitude, 
And  meeting,  passed,  and  passing,  met  no  more; 


[394] 


Prisons  loomed  up  like  giant  spectres  there,  and  dens  of  Vice 

glared  out  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  gave  forth  sounds  of 

mockery  within; 
And    up    toward    the    pure,    unfading    stars,    the    church-spire 

pointed  with  unchanging  faith, 
And  from  their  holy  altars  incense  rose  of  prayer  and  song 

and  hallowed  all  around, 
A  city  with  its  virtue  and  its  vice. 
Through  the  dim  lighted  or  the  darkened  streets,  unheard,  unseen, 

amid  the   jostling   crowds,    sped   with   white   wings   the 

Heavenly  messenger; 
She  passed  the  entrances  of  lighted  halls,  whence  flowed  soft 

tones  of  music,  and  the  sound  of  circling  dances  and  the 

laugh  and  jest, 

Winged  with  the  fragrance  of  ten  thousand  flowers ; 
She  passed  the  jaws  of  dens  where 
Riots  ruled  and  Crime  unloosed  made  horrible  the  night  with 

gory  victims  and  unearthly  groans,  and  Vice  triumphant 

gloated  o'er  her  spoils; 
She  passed  the  prisons  where  in  lonely  cells  crouched  hopeless 

wretches  in  their  vague  despair; 
She  passed  the  churches  with  their  lofty  spires  pointing  toward 

the  gateway  beautiful; 

And  stayed  not  'till  within  a  little  room  whose  one  small  window 
looked  serenely  down  upon  a  busy,  hurrying  street  below, 
she  paused,  at  last  her  destination  reached. 
Upon  a  table  burned  a  lamp  and  near,  lost  in  the  volume  that 

he  held, 

A  youth  sat  with  a  thoughtful,  earnest  brow, 
A  moment  by  his  side  the  angel  stood,  and  then  he  raised  his 

head  and  laying  down  the  little  volume  on  the  table  near, 

rose  (seeing  not  the  Heavenly  messenger)  and  passing  to 

the  window  stood  and  gazed  long  on  the  busy,  hurrying 

scene  below, 
His  face  was  sorely  troubled  and  perplexed, 


[395] 


The  shadow  of  a  great  impending  harm  seemed  to  his  sight  to 

hang 

With  fiery  brands  above  the  land,  and  the  people  that  he  loved. 
The  ardor  and  the  strength  of  youth  were  his,  but  the  wild, 

reckless  avenues  of  youth  lured  not  his  steps, 
He  stood  alone,  apart,  and  saw  afar  the  sure  destructions  lowering 

overhead, 
Saw  the  cursed  country  where  a  wrong  prevails  and  right  must 

perish  with  no  hand  to  save, 
And  standing  thus,  perplexed  and  horrified,  the  angel  came  and 

stood  beside  him  there. 
Her  presence  seemed  to  chase  the  clouds  away, — a  moment  and 

he  stood  again  alone, 
But  not  as  then  in  deep  dejection  plunged; 
His  face  though  earnest  still  was  peaceful  now, 
The  sunrise  of  a  noble  purpose  shone  above  the  mountain-tops 

that  seemed  so  high; 
For  when   the   angel   messenger   was  gone,    her  message  lived 

engraven  on  his  heart, 
He  heard  no  step,  no  voice,  no  seraph  saw, 
But  when  her  hallowed  presence  passed  without 
He  raised  his  eyes  toward  the  stars  above 
And  whispered  to  his  calm,  exultant  heart: 
"Surely  an  angel  was  sent  down  from  Heaven!" 


[396 


LIFE'S  AIM. 

Not  for  love,  or  fame,  or  pleasure, 

Let  me  live ; 
Not  for  any  golden  treasure, 

Life  may  give. 

Fame's  a  phantom,  love  but  human, 

Gold  a  snare; 
Just  to  be  a  useful  woman 

Is  my  prayer. 

Not  from  wealth,  or  fame,  or  beauty, 

Cometh  bliss; 
Blooms  alone  by  paths  of  duty, 

Happiness. 

Let  me  not  grow  sad  and  weary 

In  the  race; 
Ever  keep  a  kind  and  cheery 

Heart  and  face. 

Worth,  be  thou  the  crown  and  zenith 

Of  my  aim, 
Weighed  with  thee,  how  little  meaneth 

Beauty,  wealth  or  fame. 


[397] 


AUTUMN    LEAVES. 

("We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf."— Isaiah  64:6.) 

Beautiful  leaves  of  Autumn, 
With  the  sunset  hues  they  vie; 
Gems  for  the  glorious  setting 
Of  the  pale  and  pensive  sky. 
Bright  as  the  flaming  opals, 
That  gleam  in  the  amber  West, 
Is  the  Autumn's  rich  creation 
Of  gold  and  amethyst. 

Beautiful  leaves  of  Autumn, 
How  brief  is  their  rich  display; 
Like  all  other  earthly  glories 
They  must  perish  and  decay. 
And  where  through  the  lovely  summer, 
They  hung  in  their  stations  high; 
Trodden  by  careless  footsteps, 
Their  moldering  forms  shall  lie. 

Beautiful  leaves  of  Autumn, 
They  are  robed  for  an  early  bier ; 
Destined  to  fade  and  wither 
On  the  grave  of  the  dying  year. 
And  a  strange  sweet  theme  of  sadness, 
With  their  gorgeous  splendor  weaves 
For  all,  yes  all  that  is  earthly 
Doth  fade  like  the  Autumn  leaves. 

Beautiful  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Where  the  breezes  of  Spring  rejoice ; 
The  Autumn  winds  are  chanting, 
In  a  sadder,  sweeter  voice. 


398 


And  while  in  gorgeous  splendor, 
The  Summer  glories  wane; 
In  plaintive  tones  they  murmur 
Their  soul-subduing  strain. 

Beautiful  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Glowing  with  hectic  hues ; 
Dripping  with  pearly  rain-drops, 
Or  laden  with  honey-dews. 
Bright  is  your  reign  of  beauty, 
But  beauty  is  always  brief ; 
And  human  pride  and  glory, 
Shall  fade  like  an  Autumn  leaf. 

Beautiful  woods  of  Autumn, 

I  love  your  pensive  shades ; 

Where  each  silent  aisle  of  brightness, 

A  solemn  air  pervades. 

'Till  I  pause  midst  the  fading  beauty, 

So  gorgeous  and  so  brief; 

And  say  with  the  ancient  prophet: 

"We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf." 


[399] 


REST. 

(Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden 
and  I  will  give  you  rest. — Matt.  11:28.) 

O  the  toiling  and  the  striving 

Of  this  busy  age ! 
O  the  anxious  care  of  living, 

Mankind's  heritage! 
Weary  mortals  reaching  after 

Things  they  cannot  reach; 
Tears  beneath  their  lightest  laughter, 

Heartaches  under  gayest  speech. 
Brows  where  Care  is  ploughing  furrows, 

Eyes  where  Time  is  writing  sorrows, 
This  is  what  you  teach : 

That  the  planning  and  contriving 

Of  the  wisest  and  the  best 
For  a  better,  easier  living 

Has  not  brought  the  tired  world  rest. 
Listen!  'tis  the  Saviour  calleth, 

Like  the  dew  His  message  falleth; 
Dew  that  falls  tired  earth  to  gladden, 

From  the  east  unto  the  west: 
"Come  ye  weary,  heavy  laden, 

I  will  give  you  rest." 

And  from  mountain,  plain  and  city, 

Weary  souls  whom  angels  pity; 
Bring  to  Him  their  heavy  losses, 

Bring  to  Him  their  cruel  crosses. 
O,  that  all  the  world  distressed, 

Tossed  in  life's  delirium  fever, 
Might  but  claim  the  free  bequest, 

Peace  that  floweth  like  a  river, 
Christ  hath  brought  the  tired  world  rest! 


400 


Like  a  great  ocean  weary  of  unrest, 

My  soul  cried  out  to  God  in  troubled  waves ; 

Storms,  rocks  and  billows,  yawning,  hungry  caves, 
A  midnight  ocean  in  one  human  breast 

Cried  unto  God  for  rest. 

And  in  the  darkest  hour  before  the  dawn, 

One  stood  beside  me,  One  whom  angels  laud; 

Whose  form  was  like  unto  the  Son  of  God. 
I  woke,  the  troubled  sea  of  life  rolled  on, 

But  all  the  burden  of  my  soul  was  gone. 

O  burdened  spirits  cease  your  fruitless  quest, 
For  Christ  alone  thy  burden  can  remove, 

'Till  with  the  boundless  ocean  of  His  love, 
A  sunlit  ocean  in  one  human  breast, 

Where  flow  the  tides  of  His  eternal  rest! 


[401] 


MY   FATHER   KNOWS    THE   WAY. 

My  Father  knows  the  way,  His  love 

Compare  with  any  human  love; 
The  best  affection  man  may  claim 
Is  as  a  candle's  flickering  flame 

To  the  world-lighting  sun  above. 

My  Father  knows  the  way,  I  turn 
Toward  the  road  I've  traveled  o'er. 

0  my  weak  vision,  dazzled,  blind ! 
My  Father  knew  the  way  behind,. 

He  knows  the  way  before. 

My  Father  knows  the  way,  His  hand 

Holds  tight  the  reins  of  chance  and  fate. 
No  star  reveals  the  road  ahead, 
And  yet  His  child  should  feel  no  dread 
Although  the  night  is  late. 

My  Father  knows  the  way,  His  eye 

Can  pierce  the  gloom  that  blinds  my  sight; 

1  hear  the  rumbling  wheels  go  on, 
Life's  chariot  o'er  Time's  road  is  drawn, 

I  know  that  all  is  right. 

My  Father  knows  the  way,  His  ear 
Can  catch  the  faintest  sound  before. 

He  knows  where  lie  the  banks  so  stee"p, 

Of  Trouble's  river,  dark  and  deep, 
He  hears  its  nearing  roar. 

My  Father  knows  the  way,  His  care 

Shall  guard  me  through  the  blinding  foam; 

Nor  yet  forsake  me  when  I  see 

Flash  out  on  Life's  dark  mystery 
The  beacon  light  of  home. 

[402] 


A   DREAM    PICTURE. 

I  dreamed  of  one  who  just  had  died, 

Sweet  mercy  painted  o'er  the  past; 

And  evermore  I  see  her  last 

Risen  immortal,  glorified. 

She  stood — a  cloud  beneath  her  feet — 

Her  countenance  divinely  sweet; 

Her  robes  were  draperies  of  white, 

Her  hair  an  aureole  of  light. 

She  sang,  and  oh!  I  heard  as  here 

The  same  dear  voice,  more  rich,  more  clear. 

Yet,  as  if  seeing  all  the  wrong, 

And  sin,  and  sadness  of  mankind, 

Her  calm  eyes  gazed  across  the  world 

Of  sorrows  she  had  left  behind ; 

And  all  that  look,  that  voice,  that  song 

Full  of  sweet  earnestness  to  save 

That  lost  world  from  its  wrong. 

I  see  that  picture  hanging  still 

On  Memory's  walls,  a  thing  sublime; 

I  know  it  cannot  fade  until 

I  close  my  eyes  on  scenes  of  time; 

And  yet  I  wish  some  artist's  hand 

Might  paint  her  life-sized  portrait,  just 

As  in  that  dream  she  came  to  me 

Risen  immortal  from  the  dust. 

That  all  the  world  might  look  and  see, 

The  careless  world  of  jests  and  songs, 

How  angels  gaze  upon  their  wrongs; 

How  heaven  bends  over  earth  to  save, 

And  love  uprisen  from  the  grave 

Can  sing  for  earth  no  song  beside 

A  saviour — Christ  for  man  has  died, 

And  risen,  immortal,  glorified. 


[403] 


O,    CAN    I    BE   HAPPY    IN    HEAVEN? 

O,  can  I  be  happy  in  heaven, 

Though  free  from  earth's  trouble  and  care; 

Though  glories  undreamed  of  be  given, 

If  one  whom  I  love  is  not  there  ? 

Could  I  walk  the  bright  streets  in  my  gladness, 

Secure  from  all  darkness  and  doubt; 

And  feel  not  a  shadow  of  sadness 

For  one  lost  in  midnight  without? 

O,  could  I  be  happy  in  Heaven? 
Could  the  joys  of  that  beautiful  place, 
Soothe  to  calmness  my  soul,  anguish-riven 
O'er  the  memory  of  one  absent  face? 
And  to  know  that  forever  and  ever, 
My  pleadings  and  prayers  are  too  late; 
That  to  find  them  and  save  them  I  never 
May  pass  through  the  beautiful  gate! 

O,  should  I  be  happy  in  Heaven, 
If  one  whom  I  love  is  not  there? 
Would  not  the  bright  heritage  given 
Be  a  burden  too  dreadful  to  bear? 
The  crown  and  the  harp,  and  the  mansion 
In  that  sunlight  that  never  shall  set; 
Will  the  soul  in  its  glorious  expansion, 
Thrilled  with  rapture,  its  sorrow  forget? 

O,  would  I  be  happy  in  Heaven 

I  ask?    Could  that  other  world's  bliss 

Make  up  to  the  soul  that  has  striven 

For  the  hopes  that  are  blighted  in  this? 

Could  we  walk  by  the  beautiful  river, 

Could  we  tread  the  bright  pavements  of  gold ; 

Forgetting,  forgetting  forever 

The  friends  and  affections  of  old? 

[404] 


O,  shall  we  be  happy  in  Heaven, 

When  the  tears  are  all  wiped  from  our  eyes? 

Will  our  hearts  never  ache — anguish-riven — 

For  a  soul  that  eternally  dies? 

If  one  thing  could  soothe  the  sad  spirit, 

'Twere  His  love,  who  before  us  hath  trod; 

Could  we  think  of  one  loved  one  and  bear  it, 

Shut  out  from  the  presence  of  God? 

O,  this  is  so  little  of  living, 

And  that  is  so  endlessly  more; 

Shall  the  strongest  of  ties  Time  is  weaving 

Be  rent  at  the  portal  before? 

To  one,  endless  happiness  given, 

To  one,  an  eternal  despair; 

O,  can  we  be  happy  in  Heaven, 

If  one  whom  we  love  is  not  there? 

O  Thou,  who  in  agony's  garden, 
Wept  teardrops  of  sorrow  and  blood; 
Who  paid  on  the  cross  for  our  pardon, 
Redeemed  us  from  sin  unto  God, 
May  one  priceless  answer  be  given 
The  longing  that  burdens  my  prayer; 
That  when  I  am  with  Thee  in  Heaven, 
All,  all  whom  I  love  may  be  there ! 


[405] 


OUR   LILIES. 

Beautiful  lily,  so  pure  and  pale, 
Lightly  poised  on  thy  slender  stem, 
Soon,  soon,  shall  wither  thy  petals  frail — • 
But  another  lily  must  fade  with  them. 

Another  lily  as  pure  and  pale, 
Beautiful,  but  so  still  and  cold; 
Broken  its  life-stem  in  the  gale, 
Before  its  petals  could  quite  unfold. 

Did  we  guess  when  thy  tiny  bud  appeared 
On  a  dewy  morn,  forever  past, 
Where  with  our  broken  bud  endeared, 
Thy  beautiful  form  should  fade  at  last  ? 

We  have  chosen  thee  for  the  little  hands 
That  shall  gather  earth's  blossoms  nevermore; 
But  we  know  she  sings  with  the  angel  bands, 
Midst  the  fadeless  fields  of  the  other  shore. 

God  walked  in  His  garden  and  saw  it  there, 
The  dear  human  bud  that  His  love  had  given ; 
He  knew  earth's  desert  was  bleak  and  bare, 
And  took  it  to  bloom  midst  the  flowers  of  Heaven. 

Where  the  storms  of  time  can  never  scar 
Its  fragile  form  with  their  cruelty; 
Where  the  dust  of  earth  can  never  mar 
The  pearl  of  its  perfect  purity. 

Beautiful  lily  so  unalloyed, 

Thy  sisters  shall  blossom  nor  sigh  for  thee; 

But  oh  the  measureless  empty  void 

In  hearts  and  homes  that  must  ever  be. 


Blossoms  as  lovely  and  sweet  as  thou 
Shalt  wither  forgotten  among  the  rest ; 
But  thou  shalt  live  in  our  memory  now, 
Clasped  to  that  still,  white-mantled  breast. 

Oh,  dost  thou  fear  in  the  tomb  to  fade, 

Or  shrink  from  the  tear-bedewed  couch  so  low; 

Thou  the  last  earthly  blossom  laid, 

In  the  hands  of  One  who  has  loved  them  so! 

No,  like  a  blessed  symbol  sent, 
Thy  incense  rises  to  waft  away; 
Like  a  beautiful  spirit  just  unpent, 
Lingering  gently  but  cannot  stay. 

Cover  them  o'er  with  the  valley  clods, 
Safe  from  the  blight  of  earth's  frosty  gale ; 
This  was  our  lily,  but  that  was  God's, 
Beautiful  lilies  so  pure  and  pale. 


[407] 


THE    LOVE   OF   GOD. 

What  though  an  angel  dipped  his  pen 
In  living  pools  of  flame  and  flood, 
Yet  would  he  fail  to  teach  to  men 
The  love  of  God. 

What  though  in  utterance  sublime, 
'Twere  written  on  the  orbs  above, 
This  thought  above  the  world  would  shine 
That  God  is  love. 

Source  of  earth's  purest,  holiest  bliss, 
Sun  of  that  brighter  world  above ; 
Yet  can  we  teach  no  more  than  this, 
That  God  is  love. 

Oh  Love  divine!     Thyself  descend, 
As  with  the  pinions  of  a  dove; 
And  teach  the  world  to  comprehend 
Thy  wondrous  love. 


LITTLE   THINGS. 

He  has  learned  much,  who  folds  his  tired  wings 
From  wandering  o'er  the  earth  in  useless  quest ; 
To  find  in  the  delight  of  little  things 
Fresh  entertainment  and  contented  rest. 

To  see  defects  may  take  no  keener  sight, 
To  point  out  thorns  and  flaws  at  every  turn, 
Than  to  discover  beauties  exquisite, 
And  hidden  worth  and  sweetness  to  discern. 

Let  not  one  simple  pleasure  be  despised, 

Be  each  a  jewel  in  Life's  circlet  placed; 

Not  one  delight  of  friendship  pass  unprized, 

Nor  song,  nor  beauty,  nor  sweet  fragrance  waste. 

He  has  gained  much,  whose  heart  has  said  adieu 
To  cynic  thoughts  and  skeptic  questionings, 
Amid  the  peace  of  Nature's  life  to  woo, 
An  innocent  delight  in  little  things. 


[409] 


NOT   AS   A   KING. 

Not  as  a  king  unto  us  He  came, 
Not  with  the  pomp  of  a  titled  name; 
No  haughty  herald  He  sent  before, 
No  royal  robe  to  the  world  He  wore. 

Not  with  the  sound  of  the  conqueror's  drum, 
Not  with  an  armed  host  did  He  come, 
From  the  lowly  hamlet  of  Bethlehem, 
To  the  holy  city,  Jerusalem. 

They  looked  for  His  coming  in  power  and  might, 

Appareled  in  majesty,  grandeur,  light; 

No  earthly  glory  to  them  He  brought, 

He  came  to  His  own  and  they  knew  Him  not. 

Not  as  a  king's,  O  Thou  Holy  One 
Was  thy  throne  established,  thy  reign  begun; 
In  the  Bethlehem  manger  He  wept  and  smiled, 
When  He  came  unto  us  as  a  little  child. 

O  man,  in  your  kingly  glory  strong ! 

O  queenly  proud  of  the  festal  throng! 

In  the  sheen  of  your  royal  grandeur  dressed, 

Tired  with  the  toys  of  a  world's  unrest. 


[410] 


Not  as  a  king,  oh!  not  as  a  king, 

To  His  glorious  presence  He  bids  you  bring, 

Costliest  incense  and  gold  to  buy, 

Favor  and  peace  at  His  throne  on  high. 

Hearken,  who  comest  with  kingly  tread! 
Listen,  who  bowest  the  crowned  head? 
On  him  alone  hath  the  Saviour  smiled, 
Who  came  unto  Him  as  a  little  child. 


ALL  IS  WELL! 

"All  is  well !"     The  watchman's  cry 
Breaks  the  midnight's  slumbrous  spell, 
And  the  answering  words  reply : 
"Twelve  o'clock  and  all  is  well!" 
Undisturbed  the  City  sleeps, 
Unalarmed  by  clanging  bell; 
Every  gust  of  wind  that  sweeps 
Echoes  sweetly,  "All  is  well." 

All  is  well,  no  dread  alarm 
Breaks  upon  the  midnight  quiet, 
Warning  of  impending  harm, 
Fire  or  theft  or  drunken  riot ; 
Oft  the  midnight  hour  has  heard 
Cries  for  help  and  danger's  knell, 
But  to-night  the  passing  word, 
Says  at  midnight,  "All  is  well." 


THE   WATERS    OF   MARAH. 

We  may  laugh  and  sing,  we  may  dance  and  jest, 

As  if  life  were  only  gladness  ; 
But  where  every  heart's  deep  fountain  starts, 

There's  a  little  pool  of  sadness. 

Where,  the  waters  of  Marah  stagnant  lie, 

Or  rise  to  its  brim  o'erflowing; 
Where  the  spirit  sighs  while  its  music  dies, 

When  no  one  else  is  knowing. 

O  life  should  be  like  a  sweet,  glad  tune, 
From  the  year's  dull  keys  ascending; 

Like  the  wild-bird's  song  in  the  heart  of  June, 
But  broadening  and  never  ending! 

Yet  each  must  know  where  the  sobbing  notes 

Drown  often  the  tones  of  pleasure; 
Like  a  laughing  brook  o'er  its  cold  sharp  stones, 

Is  the  song  in  its  changing  measure. 

In  the  whirling  dance  in  the  festal  hall, 

Where  human  hearts  seem  lightest; 
In  the  golden  glare  of  pride  and  wealth, 

Where  life  seems  best  and  brightest. 

There  is  many  a  frozen  marble  smile, 

On  the  sculptured  lips  of  pleasure ; 
And  many  who  try  to  drown  a  while, 

The  toil  of  life's  dull  measure. 


THE   WANDERER. 

I  came  into  this  beautiful  world 

Like  a  leaf  tossed  on  the  sea; 
A  leaf  from  the  tree  of  life  down-hurled, 

O  there  was  no  place  for  me 
In  the  dizzy  surges  that  tossed  and  whirled 
In  the  great,  wide,  cruel,  beautiful  world ! 

On  the  beautiful,  deep  unrest 

Alone,  oh,  so  all  alone! 
Sometimes  up,  up,  to  the  wave's  white  crest, 

By  some  wandering  wind-sprite  blown ; 
Sometimes  rocked  low  in  the  cradle  rest 
Of  some  mighty  billow's  heaving  breast. 

Roll,  mighty  years  that  are  hurrying 

To  its  goal  the  exiled  leaf! 
Roll  mighty  billow  and  weep  and  sing, 

Your  gladness  and  your  grief; 
Each  unto  each  its  own  shall  bring, 
Every  flying  year  is  an  angel's  wing. 


413] 


THE   ANSWERED   PRAYER. 

Had  I  not  trusted  in  Thee, 

O  Saviour  of  mankind, 
The  darkness  would  engulf  me  now 

That  lies  so  far  behind. 
Lost  in  the  dizzy  whirlpool 

Of  doubting  and  despair, 
There  seemed  no  friend  to  pity, 

None  who  could  save  was  there. 
I  waited,  prayed  and  trusted, 

And  God  hath  heard  my  prayer. 

Had  I  not  trusted  in  Thee, 

When  in  mad  waters  whirled, 
I  dare  not  contemplate  the  wreck 

On  rock  and  chasm  hurled. 
Because  I  trusted  in  Thee, 

With  sails  all  torn  and  riven, 
With  shattered  mast  and  pennon, 

And  all  on  sharp  rocks  driven, 
Behold  the  morning  dawneth, 

And  Thou  hast  heard  from  Heaven! 

Had  I  not  waited,  praying 

That  long,  long  night  of  gloom, 
I  never  should  have  crossed  the  bar, 

Or  reached  my  haven  home. 
But  when  earth  sends  no  helper, 

God's  watch-care  shall  avail; 
He  held  those  crashing  timbers, 

He  hushed  that  angry  gale, 
He  lighted  on  those  bowlders 

Lamps  that  shall  never  fail. 


[4H] 


My  heart  goes  out  to  rescue, 

From  ruin  and  despair, 
The  weak  and  feeble-hearted  ones, 

Who  perish  without  prayer. 
No  hope  in  hardened  hearts, 

Upon  sin-stained  lips  no  word 
Repentant,  or  believing 

The  mercy  of  the  Lord ; 
While  my  prayers  change  to  praises 

To  God,  for  He  hath  heard. 

Then  pray  though  wordless,  voiceless, 

Thy  soul's  desire  arise; 
Though  drowned  in  human  sorrows, 

He  hears  the  raven's  cries. 
Remembering  our  weakness, 

Our  fallen  low  estate; 
His  loving  kindness  is  so  strong, 

His  tenderness  so  great. 
He  guides  us  when  we  trust  Him, 

He  saves  us  while  we  wait. 


HOPE  IN  GOD 

Why  art  thou  cast  down  my  Soul, 
Why  disquieted  within  me? 
Though  the  billows  o'er  thee  roll, 
Trouble's  waters  shall  not  win  thee, 
Though  the  fiery  flames  consign 
Thy  frail  earthly  house  to  ashes, 
Lo,  a  quenchless  flame  is  thine, 
O'er  the  night  of  death  it  flashes ; 
Hope  in  God,  thou  shalt  not  die, 
Spirit  of  the  Eternal  Spirit ; 
He  it  is  who  hears  thy  cry, 
Whom  alone  thy  praise  doth  merit. 

[415] 


THE  INVALID  TO  THE  CAGED  BIRD. 

What  are  you  singing  my  beautiful  bird  ? 
What  are  the  words  of  your  song? 
How  can  you  carol  when  always  denied 
The  freedom  for  which  you  must  long? 

Once,  where  the  wild  roses  blushing  at  morn 
Grew  pale  at  the  sunset's  first  glow ; 
Hidden  from  sight  by  a  cool,  leafy  screen, 
Your  little  nest  swung  to  and  fro. 

There  your  bright  eyes  first  awoke  to  the  light, 
And  your  restless  wings  scarcely  could  wait; 
So  eager  to  try  in  the  great  outside  world, 
Their  portion  of  fortune  or  fate. 

But  long  ere  your  delicate  velvety  wings 

Were  penciled  with  faint  lines  of  blue; 

With  the  first  eager  taste  of  sweet  freedom's  delight, 

A  prison  stood  ready  for  you. 

Have  you  forgotten  the  shadowy  trees, 
With  the  lily-bells  nodding  below? 
Have  you  forgotten  the  rocky  hill-side, 
Where  the  wood-pinks  and  buttercups  grow? 

There  I  too,  wandered,  unfettered  and  free, 
Ere  my  prison  doors  hid  them  from  sight; 
I  too,  am  longing  to  see  them  again 
Aglow  in  the  sun's  golden  light. 

For  I  am  a  prisoner,  too,  beautiful  bird, 
Shut  in  from  the  beauties  I  love ; 
Shut  in  from  the  blossoms  and  verdure  beneath, 
And  the  blue  of  the  cloud-lands  above. 


O  teach  me,  sweet  singer,  your  pure,  artless  song, 
That  I  may  your  happiness  share; 
And  forget  in  the  joy  of  a  rapture  like  them, 
The  phantoms  of  hope  and  despair! 


THE   SONG   OF   PEACE. 

The  war-song  and  the  battle-hymn 

Their  stirring  notes  have  stilled; 
That  oft  in  valley,  ghastly  grim, 

Brave  soldier-hearts  have  thrilled. 
Then  wake  a  new  and  nobler  strain, 

And  may  it  never  cease; 
A  better  song,  a  sweeter  song, 

The  glorious  song  of  Peace. 

Within  our  country's  broadest  bound 

Is  seen  no  martialed  host; 
No  wrathful  cannon's  roars  resound 

To  quake  from  coast  to  coast. 
No  wounded  soldier  waits  his  end, 

No  captive  his  release; 
No  anxious,  troubled  guards  defend 

The  blessed  throne  of  Peace. 

But  Youth  goes  forth  to  fight  and  win, 

Where  no  red  sabers  shine; 
And  Age  rejoices  that  war's  din 

Jars  not  on  life's  decline. 
And  Love,  whose  heart-strings  were  her  chains, 

Smiles  in  war's  long  surcease; 
Whose  tears  were  blood,  a  princess  reigns, 

In  all  the  realm  of  Peace. 


In  war — a  country's  hopes  stagnate, 

In  war — her  strong  are  slain. 
In  war — dark  evils  desecrate 

Her  council  hall  and  fane. 
In  war — with  wings  of  omen  dark 

Her  wrongs  and  debts  increase, 
Prosperity  and  progress  mark 

The  golden  realm  of  Peace. 

Then  swell  the  chorus  loud  and  long 

'Till  it  reverberates, 
Thanksgiving  hymn  and  natal  song, 

Of  our  United  States. 
And  be  our  nation's  greatest  boast, 

O'er  wrong  and  hate's  decrease; 
To  louder  swell  from  coast  to  coast, 

The  triumph  song  of  Peace. 


LINES 

The  years  bring  changes  as  they  come 

To  every  heart,  to  every  home, 

Though  silently  they  seem  to  pass, 

As  Summer  breezes  through  the  grass, 

Old  haunts  in  time  grow  new  and  strange, 

And  old  familiar  faces  change; 

There  is  no  earthly  Eden  fair 

But  time  and  change  are  busy  there; 

Yet  is  the  despot,  Time,  defied, 

By  Heaven's  best  gifts  to  few  denied ; 

Time  cannot  faithful  friends  estrange, 

Nor  bid  sincere  affection  change. 


A   WISH. 

I  only  ask  a  happy  heart, 

And  broader  scope  for  true  ambition; 

I  would  not  want  a  nobler  part, 

Or  loftier  position. 

I  would  not  dream  in  marble  halls, 
Or  waste  my  years  in  idle  splendor ; 
Not  while  a  true  Ambition  calls, 
And  angel  guides  attend  her. 

What  is  a  crown,  and  what  a  throne, 
And  what  great  wealth  in  golden  coffers? 
Wisdom  and  happiness  alone 
Life's  highest  promise  offers. 

A  crown  may  press  a  maddened  brain, 
Despair  lurk  in  a  golden  chalice ; 
Gay  pleasures  hide  a  life  of  pain, 
A  broken  heart  dwell  in  a  palace. 

I  only  ask  for  strength  to  toil 
At  some  true  work,  a  heart  to  love  it; 
And  that  no  cankering  worm  may  spoil 
My  life  fruit,  when  unworthy  of  it. 

A  happy,  useful  life  will  show 
Itself  reward  for  best  endeavor; 
This  be  my  choice,  and  then  I  know 
It  shall  go  on  forever. 


[419] 


THE  DAY  OF  JUSTICE. 

Not  these  gray  mountains,  falling  old  and  grim, 
Their  rocks  and  boulders  piling  stone  on  stone, 
Will  hide  the  wicked  from  the  face  of  Him 
Who  sitteth  on  the  throne. 

Long  was  that  face  by  clouds  and  mists  obscure, 
And  men  have  been  by  sin  and  shame  enticed; 
Remembering  not  that  each  shall  stand  before 
The  judgment-seat  of  Christ. 

There  shall  the  laurels  fall  from  many  a  brow, 
Then  many  deeds  of  valor  none  applaud; 
Justice  and  judgment,  aye,  forever,  now 
Belongeth  unto  God. 

Then  shall  a  clean  and  stainless  life  shine  forth, 
For  God  looks  not  on  sin  with  tolerance; 
There  shall  one  lovely  deed  of  love  be  worth 
More  than  long  arguments. 

These  petty  courts  that  through  long  centuries 
Justice  and  judgments  have  dispensed  to  men, 
These  justice  halls  and  penitentiaries 
Will  not  be  needed  then. 

For,  cast  aside  shall  be  these  laws  that  play 
With  crimes,  as  cats  with  mice,  to  tantalize 
One  victim,  while  another  hid  away 
Mocks  at  stern  Justice's  eyes. 

When  sits  the  Judge  of  all  the  universe, 
Up  on  His  righteous  throne — none  shall  distort 
His  laws — on  sin  shall  fall  sin's  curse 
In  that  high  court. 


[420] 


And  to  extort  exorbitant  demands 
From  human  anguish,  none  shall  plead  God's  laws ; 
And  none  with  lifting  of  unholy  hands 
Defend  an  unworthy  cause. 

Fear  not,  O  Faith !  'tis  here  thy  sight  is  dim ; 
He  who  could  guide  through  this  long,  tortuous  way, 
Will  keep  the  trust  committed  unto  Him 
Against  that  day. 

The  wrong  shall  not  forever  do  and  dare, 
God's  mercy  is  long  suffering,  Christ  hath  died ; 
But  not  in  vain  in  laboring  and  prayer 
Has  earth  for  justice  cried. 

Angels  may  pity,  none  of  vengeance  dream, 
When  fails  the  feeble  arm  of  human  might, 
And  the  great  Judge  o'er  countless  worlds  supreme 
Makes  all  things  right. 


FRAGMENT 

Better  a  purpose,  pure  and  true  and  strong 
Than  all  the  gold  that  this  wide  world  can  give; 
Better  a  home  within  the  gate  of  Heaven 
Than  here  in  marble  palaces  to  live. 


AN  INVOCATION 

O  Happiness!  where  have  your  airy  wings  flown, 
Art  thou  in  the  meadows,  the  groves,  or  the  hills  ? 
Oh,  leave  no.t  the  tired  heart  in  sadness  alone! 
Come  back,  and  the  charms  of  thy  promise  fulfill ! 
Where,  where  hast  thou  gone,  must  we  seek  thee  in  vain, 
In  the  city's  gay  whirl  or  in  nature's  wild  glen? 
And  cry  in  despair :  "What  is  loving  but  pain ! 
What  is  friendship  but  grief  to  the  children  of  men !" 

Oh !  is  there  no  prospect  but  parting  and  death  ? 

Ah !  parting  ofttimes  wears  a  bitter  sting, 

When  death  has  no  part  in  the  faltering  breath, 

When  souls  have  no  solace,  hearts  nowhere  to  cling. 

Farewell,  saddest  message  on  tongue  or  on  pen, 

But  sadder  when  breathed  in  the  silence  alone. 

Oh,  come,  sweet  inspirer !  where,  where  hast  thou  been, 

While  eyes  have  grown  tearless  and  hearts  turned  to  stone? 

Come!  come  with  the  smiles  and  the  gladness  of  Spring, 
Breathe !  breathe  o'er  the  spirit  the  balm  of  thy  breath ; 
Make  the  arches  above  with  thy  welkin  song  ring, 
And  the  ashen  rose  blush  on  the  pale  cheek  of  death. 
Peace !  peace !  bid  the  troubled  waves  catch  the  refrain ; 
Let  peace  like  the  moonbeams  dissolve  the  night's  gloom, 
But  when  shall  lost  Happiness  blossom  again? 
Oh,  when  shall  the  rose  gain-  its  wasted  perfume? 

O'er  mountain  and  vale  we  have  sought  thee  afar, 
Stray  sprite  of  the  sunshine,  frail  being  of  air, 
We  followed  thee,  long  as  a  glittering  star, 
We  reached  to  secure  thee  and  no  star  was  there ; 


[422] 


We  saw  thee  reflected  in  lakes  of  delight; 
We  launched  and  pursued  thee  in  vain,  far  and  wide; 
We  grasped  thee  a  moment  and  checked  thy  swift  flight; 
But  with  us  thou  wast  not  content  to  abide. 

Stay!  stay!  we  entreated,  but  e'en  as  we  plead, 
Thou  wert  slipping  away  with  the  dew-pearls  of  morn ; 
We  cried :  "Do  not  leave  us/'  and  lo,  thou  hast  fled ! 
Was  it  but  to  despair,  that  the  spirit  was  born? 
Was  it  only  a  dirge  that  was  meant  for  the  song? 
Is  Happiness  only  a  phantom  of  air? 
Ah!  these  are  the  questions  perplexing  so  long 
That  rise  like  a  surge  ere  the  heart  is  aware. 

But  hush !  there's  a  sound  on  the  mist's  sable  wing, 
'Tis  the  voice  of  true  Happiness  speaking  so  low 
That  only  the  soul  hears  the  song  she  would  sing, 
And  only  the  heart  her  sweet  message  can  know. 
"Come  back,  vain  pursuer  of  pleasure  and  peace, 
Beware  of  the  hollow  allurements  of  sin, 
They  blind  and  deceive  you,  your  woes  to  increase, 
My  source  is  above  and  my  throne  is  within. 

"Above  where  the  angels  pluck  roses  of  bliss 
And  incense  is  burned  on  an  altar  divine, 
Within  where  the  heart  sinks  in  sorrow's  abyss, 
'Till  I  kindle  my  fires  on  its  innermost  shrine ; 
Not  all  the  rich  dowry  wealth  can  bestow, 
Not  all  the  devotion  true  friendship  can  boast, 
Not  all  the  gay  blossoms  ye  gather  below, 
Can  bring  more  than  transient  enjoyment  at  most. 

"Cease !  cease  to  go  groping  for  toys  that  will  please, 
The  flame  that  is  quenchless  descends  from  above, 
Earth's  cold,  cruel  ways  would  the  warmest  heart  freeze, 


[423 


That  burns  on  its  altar  no  incense  of  love. 

I  come,  lo  I  come,  with  the  message  of  peace, 

With  sunlight  and  gladness,  with  music  and  smiles ; 

I  come  to  bid  woe  and  despondency  cease, 

I  come  to  strew  beauty  o'er  earth's  barren  isles ! 

Even  death  shall  be  glad  with  the  promise  of  life, 
And  peace  her  millenium  reign  shall  begin; 
Sad  farewells  and  partings  with  hope  shall  be  rife, 
When  the  lamp  of  true  Happiness  burneth  within. 
Come  home,  sad  repiner,  by  life's  tempest  tossed ; 
Oh !  not  to  despair  was  the  spirit  designed." 
At  the  door  of  the  heart  knocks  the  angel  we  lost, 
And  with  roses  of  bliss  is  her  scepter  entwined. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

•-   "•    "<':'   ' 

"They  are  beautiful,"  said  mamma,  pointing  to  the  starry 

skies ; 
"Heaven  is  way  up  there,"  said  Charley,  lifting  two  great 

solemn  eyes. 
"Yes,"  said  mamma,  speaking  softly,  "but  we  cannot  see  it 

now ;" 
"We  can  see  the  bottom  of  it,"  Charley  said  with  thoughtful 

brow. 

What  a  thought  of  childlike  wisdom 
Baby  Charley's  words  expressed, 

Now  we  only  see  the  bottom,  sometime  we  shall  see  the  rest ; 
If  the  earthly  glimpses  given  be  so  beautiful,  when  wide 
Swing  the  golden  gates  of  Heaven,  what  will  be  the  other 

side? 


[424] 


LINES   WRITTEN   ON   RECEIVING  VIOLETS 
IN  A   LETTER 

Dear  little  violets,  crushed  in  a  letter, 
Words  may  be  true,  but  thy  eloquence  better 
Speaks  of  a  friendship  unchanged  and  sincere ; 
Many  a  flower  is  more  handsome  and  stately, 
Many  a  blossom  more  waxen  and  saintly, 
But  are  there  any  more  modest  or  dear? 

Blue  speaks  of  truth  in  a  thousand  forms  molded, 
Tinting  the  sky-scrolls  above  us  unfolded, 
Blossoming  with  the  sweet  violets  of  Spring, 
Looking  from  soul-windows  deep  with  emotion, 
Written  in  all  the  blue  waves  of  the  ocean, 
Touching  with  beauty  the  bird's  azure  wing. 

Oft  we  may  question  true  friendship's  existence, 
Oft  be  deceived  by  mere  scheming  and  pretense ; 
But  these  winged  bearers  a  message  have  brought 
Telling,  not  what  friendship  is  or  has  once  been, 
But  what  it  might  be  if  with  an  inspired  pen 
Truth  could  be  written  on  each  secret  thought. 

Friendship  is  true,  though  misused  and  perverted, 

Though  oft  with  evil  intentions  asserted ; 

What  is  not  true  is  not  worthy  the  name. 

Friendship  is  not  for  a  day,  but  unending, 

Ever  expanding  and  ever  ascending ; 

Though  man  no  more  should  its  sacredness  claim. 

I  will  not  cast  you  away,  little  token, 
Friendship's  worth  cannot  be  written  or  spoken, 
But  it  looks  out  from  your  sweet  eyes  of  blue; 
Crushed  are  the  petals  so  fresh  when  first  gathered; 
Yet  ye  shall  lie  with  mementoes  long  treasured, 
Breathing  so  sweetly  that  friendship  is  true. 

[425] 


WITHOUT 
(Rev.  22:15.) 

When  the  King  hath  returned  to  His  City  of  Light, 

And  gathered  His  glorified  in 
From  the  shadow  of  death,  from  the  darkness  of  night, 

From  the  blight  and  contagion  of  sin ; 
God's  glory  shall  light  up  the  shining  pearl  gates, 

Girt  with  precious  jewels  about, 
But  what  in  the  dread  outer-darkness  awaits 

For  the  lost  wicked  nations  without? 

Oh,  rayless  shall  be  the  dark  maze  where  they  grope, 

Who  learn  at  a  terrible  cost, 
No  beacon  of  morn,  and  no  day-star  of  hope 

Shall  cheer  the  lone  land  of  the  lost ! 
Glad  anthems  shall  rise  from  the  myriads  within, 

'Till  the  echoes  with  rapture  shall  shout; 
But  sorrow  unending  shall  swiftly  begin 

To  the  dwellers  of  darkness  without. 

They  were  bought  with  a  price,  by  the  King  on  His  throne, 

They  were  purchased  from  bondage  and  sin, 
Redeemed  to  be  prophets  and  priests  of  His  own 

And  shine  in  His  temple  within ; 
But  they  trailed  their  white  robes  in  the  low  dust  of  time, 

They  groveled  in  error  and  doubt , 
They  stained  their  pure  hands  in  the  black  pools  of  crime, 

They  are  dwellers  in  darkness  without. 


[426] 


Through  the  cities  of  earth,  they  have  passed  in  their  pride, 

They  have  scattered  their  harvest  abroad; 
But  they  find  only  those  of  the  Lamb's  spotless  bride 

Can  enter  the  city  of  God. 
The  pure  and  the  upright,  alone  shall  go  in 

To  that  realm,  girt  with  glory  about ; 
The  kingdoms  of  crime  and  the  nations  of  sin 

Are  lost  in  the  darkness  without. 

O  City  of  Cities !  thy  bright  natal  star 

Shines  o'er,  where  thy  strong  walls  are  built, 
Through  thy  gates  shall  not  enter,  thy  brightness  to  mar, 

One  shadow  of  darkness  or  guilt. 
The  kings  of  the  earth  bring  their  honor  to  thee, 

Their  glory  is  lost  in  thine  own ; 
Forever  and  ever  thy  Kingdom  shall  be 

Immortal  as  He  on  thy  throne. 


[427] 


THE  CHRISTIAN  LIFE 

'Tis  glorious  to  live  and  know 

That  my  Redeemer  lives, 
And  that  where'er  my  footsteps  go 

A  lamp  of  light  He  gives. 

'Tis  happiness  to  live  and  know 

That  life  shall  never  wane ; 
For  though  man  dieth  here  below, 

Yet  shall  he  live  again. 

To  live  and  know  that  not  for  time 
Each  thought  and  deed  shall  be; 

But  for  (oh,  calling  grand  sublime !) 
For  all  eternity. 

'Tis  wonderful  to  live  and  find, 

In  all  below,  above, 
The  stamp  of  the  Infinite  mind, 

The  story  of  God's  love. 

To  live  with  guardian  angels  near 

And  peace  an  hourly  guest, 
To  face  the  darkness  without  fear 

Amid  the  storm  to  rest. 

To  feel  the  strivings  of  a  soul 

That  nevermore  can  die, 
Longings  whose  wide,  unbounded  goal 

Is  immortality. 

'Tis  beautiful  to  die  and  feel 

This  earthly  house  decay, 
Then  rise  and  seek  with  new-fledged  zeal 

That  mansion  far  away. 

[428] 


To  bid  the  stream  of  death  roll  on 
Though  rolling  very  near ; 

To  say,  "The  chilling  tide  is  gone 
There  is  no  river  here/* 

'Tis  glorious  to  live  and  know 
That  my  Redeemer  lives, 

And  that  where'er  my  footsteps  go 
A  lamp  of  light  He  gives. 

'Tis  happiness  to  live  and  know 
That  life  shall  never  wane ; 

'Tis  Christ  for  me  to  live,  but  oh, 
To  die  is  endless  gain ! 


A  FAREWELL 

Goodbye,  perhaps  forever  here, 

With  God  'tis  but  a  little  while, 

To  sleep  and  wake  and  find  you  near, 

To  hear  your  voice  and  see  your  smile, 

The  few  brief  years  that  intervene 

Will  only  be  a  cloud  between, 

When  to  our  clearer  sight, 

As  unto  God  this  Life  appears, 

A  thousand  of  her  little  years, 

As  a  watch  in  the  night; 

Goodbye,  'till  endless  day  is  born, 

Goodnight,  until  the  morn. 


[429] 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  RIVER 

I  have  come  from  the  mountain's  rugged  path, 

Where  my  weary  feet  have  trod; 
I  have  come  from  the  mountain's  cloudless  height, 

Where  I  walked  alone  with  God. 
I  have  come  to  the  dark,  dark  valley  now, 

Where  the  river  rolleth  near; 
I  have  felt  its  dew,  damp  on  my  brow ; 

But  there  is  no  river  here. 

I  said:     "Roll  on,  dark  river,  roll  on," 

When  I  felt  it  drawing  near, 
"Roll  on,  roll  on,  dark  river,  roll  on, 

With  Jesus,  I  cannot  fear." 
But  the  valley's  gloomy  night  is  gone 

And  there  is  no  river  here. 

For  One,  there  is  in  the  valley  dark, 

Who  bade  the  waters  divide; 
And  I'm  safely,  gladly  passing  now, 

Dry  shod,  to  the  other  side. 
I  have  no  chilling  flood  to  brave, 

No  perilous  bark  to  steer ; 
There's  a  lamp  of  light  in  the  valley  dark, 

And  there  is  no  river  here. 

I  said:     "Roll  on,  dark  river,  roll  on," 

When  I  felt  it  drawing  near, 
"Roll  on,  roll  on,  dark  river,  roll  on, 

With  Jesus,  I  cannot  fear." 
But  the  valley's  gloomy  night  is  gone 

And  there  is  no  river  here. 


[430] 


I  have  almost  gained  the  other  shore 

And  my  spirit  soon  will  sing, 
Its  darkness  past,  its  storms  all  o'er, 

In  the  palace  of  the  King; 
Where  the  loved  and  lost  will  welcome  me, 

Who  entered  the  valley  drear, 
Long  years  ago,  with  the  Christian  guide, 

And  found  no  river  here. 

Roll  on  again  dark  river  of  death, 

For  the  angel  choir  I  hear. 
Ah,  many  will  cross  with  faltering  breath, 

In  terror  and  darkness  and  fear ; 
But  the  Christian's  strong  Guide  whispereth 

"There  is  no  river  here." 


[431] 


THOUGHTS 

Words  cannot  change  my  worth 

Within  God's  sight ; 

I  stand  the  same  whatever  you  have  said ; 
Those  cruel  words  will  fall  back  on  your  head, 

To  ban  and  blight, 
Because  there  are  white  angels  overhead 

To  guard  the  right. 

Because  there  are  white  angels  'round  about 

The  truth  of  things 
In  their  still  tents  where  lurks  no  darksome  doubt 

Or  lie  with  wings ; 
And  love  walks  clothed  in  radiance  in  and  out, 

And  softly  sings ; 
Can  mere  opinions  change  gold  into  brass 

Or  make  a  diamond  paste? 
Then  let  the  unjust  judgment  pass 

Like  worthless  waste. 


[432] 


LONGING 

Beat,  beat,  oh  Soul,  thy  panting  wing 

Against  these  earthly  bars, 
Thou,  destined  yet  to  soar  and  sing, 

Beyond  the  stars ! 

Though  this  strange  rapture  be  the  pain 

Of  prisoned  wings, 
Yet  shalt  thou  break  thy  bondage  chain 

Ye  fettered  things. 

Free,  free,  oh  Soul,  not  all  for  naught 

Thy  fruitless  strife, 
If  one  sweet  note  thine  ear  hath  caught 

From  higher  life ! 

Fold  patient  pinions,  longing  Soul,  and  wait 

Thy  destiny, 
When  wide  shall  swing  the  iron  gate 

And  thou  art  free. 


[433] 


LIFE'S  FRUITION 

What  would  life  be  if  these  few  years 
Of  thankless  toil  and  bitter  tears 

Were  all  and  naught  beyond? 
An  utter  failure  void  of  hope, 
A  sunless  maze  of  narrow  scope 
Where  phantoms  of  despair  would  grope 

Throughout  its  narrow  bound. 

If  like  a  sear  and  withered  leaf, 
Unmindful  grown  of  joy  or  grief, 

We  fell  asleep, 
Forevermore  in  dust  to  lie, 
While  centuries  passed  us  heedless  by, 
Our  endless  heritage  to  die, 

Our  doom  a  moldering  heap. 

Why  were  hearts  given  to  strive  and  long 
And  suffer  by  the  hand  of  wrong ; 

Is  this  their  destiny? 

Why  were  minds  given  to  grope  for  light, 
And  wing  through  time  and  space  their  flight, 
But  to  go  out  in  starless  night, 

From  life's  dread  mystery? 

Alas  for  Love,  if  o'er  her  tomb 

The  flowers  of  Hope  forbid  to  bloom, 

Went  quaking  to  the  dust ! 
Alas  for  Love,  if  her  bright  smile 
Could  claim  but  this  world's  little  while ; 
Could  Earth  her  children  reconcile 

To  shattered  shrines  of  trust ! 


434 


Alas  for  Thought,  if  fleeting  time 
Could  crumble  her  immortal  shrine 

And  quench  her  brightest  flame ! 
Alas  for  Thought,  if  o'er  her  skies 
No  star  of  hope  could  ever  rise ! 
Alas  for  Thought,  when  promise  dies, 

To  never  bloom  again ! 

O  Faith,  thou  brightest  sun  of  earth, 
What  heart  can  sing  thy  matchless  worth 

To  helpless  mortals  given ! 
Saviour,  thy  love's  bright  presence  shed 
Gilds  the  dark  vaults  where  sleep  the  dead, 
And  lights  the  gloomy  vale  we  tread, 

As  with  the  hues  of  Heaven. 


[435] 


THE  GRANITE  BOULDER  OF  THE  BEACH. 

Who  could  be  sterner,  colder, 
Who  could  be  grander,  older, 
Than  I,  the  granite  boulder, 

Monarch  of  beach  and  shore ; 
Colder  than  human  coldness, 
Older  than  human  oldness, 
Bolder  than  human  boldness, 

Who  was  my  peer  before  ? 

Born  in  an  age  chaotic, 
Born  to  a  throne  despotic, 
Breaker  and  rare  exotic 

Tremble  beneath  my  frown ; 
Resting  from  Nature's  revel 
Back  in  an  age  primeval 
Who  shall  my  grandeur  level? 

Older  than  king  or  crown. 

Brief  are  the  generations, 
Boastful  and  weak  the  nations 
Time's  mighty  revelations 

'Graved  on  my  armor  cold, 
Science  with  eyes  far  seeing, 
Error  ofttimes  decreeing 
Draws  from  my  birth  and  being 

Fancies  and  facts  untold. 

Waves  in  their  aimless  revel, 
Tossed  up  the  glistening  gravel 
'Till  a  beach  firm  and  level 

Lies  at  my  broad,  gray  base ; 
Here  happy  children  playing, 
Here  happy  lovers  straying, 
To  me  their  homage  paying 

Gaze  upward  to  my  face. 

[436] 


O'er  my  broad  brow  are  bending 
Branches,  their  blooms  suspending 
Fair,  fragile  beauty  blending 

With  grandest  symmetry, 
While  a  blue  breaker  tosses 
To  me  her  tangled  mosses 
Fashioned  in  wreaths  and  crosses 

Flowers  of  the  land  and  sea. 


Steady  the  sculptor's  chisel 
Surer  than  deadly  missile 
Moves  while  his  careless  whistle 

Mockingly  floats  o'er  all, 
Dark  earth,  oh,  be  my  pillow ! 
Hide  me,  oh  drooping  willow! 
Chant  dirges  faithful  billow, 

Great  is  my  fall ! 

Held  like  a  captive  quaking, 
No  strife  for  freedom  making, 
Never  a  fetter  breaking, 

Broken,  defaced  and  scarred, 
Man,  who  to  earth  hath  brought  me, 
Man,  who  my  ruin  wrought  me, 
Man,  who  with  shame  hath  fraught  me, 

Man,  who  my  beauty  marred, 

Brief  are  thy  generations, 
Boastful  and  weak  thy  nations, 
Transient  thy  best  creations, 

Thy  longest  life  a  span ; 
Owning  in  all  thy  science 
Mine  as  a- race  of  giants, 
Barest  thou  our  defiance 

[437] 


Weak,  dying,  timorous  man? 
Slain  by  the  storm's  caressing, 
Choked  by  the  breaker's  blessing ; 
Nature's  great  laws  transgressing, 

Changing  and  weak  and  small. 
Man  of  decay  partaker, 
Only  to  Nature's  Maker; 
Ruler  of  storm  and  breaker, 

I  shall  arise  to  fall. 


Alas!  a  broken  column 
Reared  in  a  city  solemn, 
Thus  hath  my  glory  fallen, 

All  things  are  new  and  strange. 
Far  from  the  wild  waves'  rollic, 

Far  from  the  billows'  frolic; 
At  last  to  rise  symbolic 

Of  death,  decay  and  change. 


[438] 


SONG 

YOU  WILL  FORGET  BUT  REMEMBER  AGAIN 

When  I  grow  weary  and  bid  you  good-night, 
When  I'm  asleep  on  my  couch  cold  and  white; 
Pillowed  with  blossoms  so  pure  and  so  pale, 
Hidden  from  sight  by  the  mystical  veil, 
You  will  remember  me  just  for  a  while, 
When  the  clouds  hang  over  Life's  changing  dial; 
But  when  the  sunlight  breaks  out  from  the  sky, 
You  will  forget  me  where  lonely  I  lie. 
You  will  forget  me  and  if  a  chance  thought, 
Dim  with  the  mists  the  long  cycles  have  wrought, 
Fresh  on  your  mind  my  lost  image  renews, 
Quickly  will  perish  its  few  faded  hues. 

But  when  you  turn  from  the  world's  fleeting  joys 
When  you  grow  tired  of  its  glamour  and  noise; 
Folding  your  hands  for  your  last  silent  sleep, 
Closing  your  eyes  for  that  slumber  so  deep, 
Dead  recollections  around  you  will  throng, 
They  who  have  slumbered  forgotten  so  long; 
All  the  fleet  years  while  they  silent  have  lain, 
You  will  remember,  remember  again. 
Where'er  my  spirit  shall  journey  I'll  know, 
Down  in  the  world  with  its  sunshine  and  snow; 
Down  in  the  world  with  its  pleasure  and  pain, 
You  will  forget,  but  remember  again. 


[439] 


THE   REIGN    OF   THE    ROSES. 

Room  for  the  roses,  make  room  for  the  roses, 
Coming  by  hundreds,  a  conquering  race; 
Not  with  their  millions  of  tiny  thorn  lances 
Raised  to  confront  us,  the  brave  host  advance, 
But  with  their  beauty  they  conquer  all  foes. 
Beautiful  conquerors,  dew-wet  and  tender, 
City  and  town  are  bewitched  by  your  splendor; 
Every  heart  opens,  all  gateways  unclose, 
Room  for  the  reign  of  the  conqueror  rose. 

Room  for  the  roses,  the  conquering  roses, 

Red  as  the  blood  that  in  battles  is  shed; 

White,  as  the  snows  that  brave  armies  have  trodden; 

Gold,  as  the  sunshine  that  glitters  o'erhead; 

Pink,  as  the  dawn,  to  the  sunset's  rose-amber, 

Over  old  walls  how  they  struggle  and  clamber; 

Never  a  desolate  place  but  they  fill  it; 

Never  a  desolate  heart  but  they  thrill  it, 

Sharer  of  happiness,  soother  of  woes, 

Room  among  men  for  the  conqueror  rose. 

Time  for  the  roses,  take  time  for  the  roses, 
Plant  them  to  brighten  each  bare  flowerless  place; 
Plenty  of  roses  for  children  to  gather, 
Plenty  of  roses  to  gladden  dull  weather. 
Cut  them  for  bouquet  and  basket  and  vase, 
Send  them  to  bring  delight  to  a  sad  face ; 
See  at  their  coming  how  aged  eyes  will  brighten, 
See  at  their  coming  how  leaden  cares  lighten, 
All  they  will  say  for  you,  melody  knows. 
Time  in  our  lives,  for  the  beautiful  rose. 


[440] 


Time  for  the  roses,  plant  gardens  of  roses, 
Fair  little  Edens  to  brighten  the  years ; 
Wreathe  the  white  cottage  and  garland  the  palace, 
Richer  than  gold  is  each  morn- jeweled  chalice. 
Greeting  the  sun  with  its  dew-crystal  tears, 
Life  would  be  grayer,  dull  care  would  be  duller 
But  for  their  fragrance  and  beauty  and  color ; 
Every  heart  opens,  all  gateways  unclose, 
Long  reign  the  beautiful  conqueror,  rose. 


BROKEN    HEARTS. 

They  beat  beneath  lace,  jewels,  flowers, 
Fit  decorations  of  their  bier; 
But  none  will  stop  to  drop  a  tear, 
Or  watch  through  all  the  weary  hours. 

Or  'neath  the  cheapest  garb  they  throb, 
Their  onward  march  to  death  and  rest; 
For  night  will  come  and  it  is  best 
For  smothered  sigh  and  stifled  sob. 

O  do  not  scoff!     If  we  could  know 
The  sweetest  faces  that  we  meet 
Smile  above  human  hearts  that  beat 
Sad  minor  strains  in  vespers  low. 

Hush,  careless  laugh  and  cruel  jest, 
Twine  Sympathy's  sweet  flowers  with  Mirth ; 
Pray  for  the  broken  hearts  of  earth, 
Deep  buried  in  a  faithful  breast. 

That  broken  harp  that  still  sounds  sweet, 
Through  night  and  storm,  Hope's  gladsome  chords ; 
For  wounded  valor  Earth  hath  words, 
For  this,  the  silence  of  defeat. 

[441  ] 


BURIED. 

In  the  mystic  realm  of  reason, 
Hidden  from  the  critic's  vision , 
In  the  vernal  vale  elysian, 

Where  our  cherished  fancies  throng, 
Close  beside  affection's  river, 
Flowing  from  the  heart  forever, 
Lie  the  tombs  of  thoughts  that  never 

Can  be  woven  into  song. 

In  the  moonlight,  sad  and  solemn, 
Lighting  up  each  broken  column, 
'Neath  the  willow  branches  fallen, 

Dipping  in  the  surging  stream. 
Elegy  and  allegory, 
Who  can  read  the  secret  story, 
In  the  pensive  moonlight  glory, 

Like  the  measures  of  a  dream? 

All  alone  within  the  glistening 
Of  the  slanting  starlight,  listening 
For  the  cold  shroud  garments  rustling 

Of  some  silent  sleeper  there. 
All  alone,  no  fellow  mortal 
Ever  passed  that  guarded  portal ; 
Hush!     No  human  sound  shall  startle 

One  from  out  its  sepulcher. 


442 


Just  outside  the  cemetery, 
In  fantastic  costumes  airy ; 
Fancies  dance  in  circles  merry, 

Dance  to  music  lightly  gay. 
But  within  a  hush  unbroken, 
Thoughts  that  lie  and  live  unspoken, 
Thoughts  that  time  can  never  waken 

From  their  silent  lethargy. 

There  are  graves  and  graves  unnumbered, 
That  for  years  and  years  have  slumbered, 
Whether  with  white  snows  encumbered, 

Or  with  sunshine  gilded  o'er. 
Snows  their  outer  forms  may  whiten, 
Sunshine  may  their  sadness  brighten, 
But  their  burden  naught  can  lighten — 

They  are  graves  forevermore. 

So  beneath  the  smiles  of  gladness 
Often  lie  the  tombs  of  sadness; 
Were  it  not  a  dream  of  madness, 

Their  existence  to  deny. 
Spent  may  be  the  storm-clouds  weeping, 
Under  smiles  and  sunshine  sleeping; 
Two  perchance  one  record  keeping, 

Carved  in  stone  and  memory. 

Long  may  we  forget  the  hidden 
Haunts  that  souls  alone  have  trodden, 
'Till  some  tolling  bell  unbidden 

Calls  away  to  other  years. 
Back  to  dream  in  twilight  pausing, 
While  the  gates  behind  us  closing, 
Entrance  unto  all  refusing, 

Rise  like  mighty  barriers. 


[443 


Ah,  despair  the  brain  would  madden, 
Did  no  flowers  of  promise  gladden, 
Even  while  their  glories  sadden, 

Every  wreath-encircled  urn. 
All  the  burdened  air  they  lighten, 
For  in  bud  and  bloom  is  written, 
These  in  midnight  gloom  forgotten 

To  the  sunlight  shall  return. 


WE    CANNOT   KNOW    EACH    OTHER. 

We  cannot  know  each  other, 

Though   bound   by   strongest   ties; 
And  though,  oft  with  deep  meaning, 

Soul  to  kindred  soul  replies. 
Though  we  mingle  in  life's  harvest, 

And  our  sheaves  together  glean, 
Yet  though  no  discord  may  part  us, 

A  great  gulf  is  fixed  between. 

We  cannot  know  each  other, 

Little  worlds  we  have  apart; 
From  the  buSy  world  around  us, 

Hidden  deep  in  mind  and  heart. 
Peopled  with  a  thousand  feelings, 

Aspirations,  thoughts,  desires, 
Unrevealed  to  foe  or  loved  ones, 

Yet  alive  with  quenchless  fires. 


[444] 


We  cannot  know  each  other, 

And  the  great  world  may  not  see 
If  our  souls  are  clad  in  blackness 

Or  in  snowy  purity. 
Yet  we  mold  that  hidden  empire, 

In  the  sight  of  higher  powers, 
To  a  wilderness  of  thistles, 

Or  a  paradise  of  flowers. 

We  cannot  know  each  other, 

And  we  know  the  plan  is  wise, 
For  so  much  of  inward  feeling, 

Outward  action  underlies. 
Love  might  die  like  withered  blossoms, 

Friendship's  charm  no  more  exist, 
If  from  every  hidden  motive, 

Were  removed  the  shadowy  mist. 

Shall  we  ever  know  each  other? 

Oh!  the  boundless  realm  of  thought! 
Oh!  the  living  worlds  around  us 

That  we  comprehended  not! 
When  we  reach  the  many  mansions, 

And  in  angel  anthems  share; 
Without  fear  of  fault  or  blemish, 

We  can  know  each  other  there. 


[445] 


THE   TWO   ROADS. 

There  are  only  two  roads  of  life,  my  friend, 

Only  two  roads  to  take; 
One,  all  of  the  way  doth  higher  ascend, 
And  one,  goeth  down  to  the  very  end. 

Yours  is  the  choice  to  make. 

You  are  standing  now  at  the  open  gate 

Beneath  Youth's  budding  vine; 
You  must  traverse  one  ere  the  dawn  is  late, 
If  you  take  the  wrong,  'tis  no  freak  of  fate, 

For  the  free  choice  is  thine. 

There  are  only  two  roads,  oh!  pause  and  think, 

Hold  rashness  with  bit  and  rein; 
Lest  low  in  the  deep,  stagnant  mire  you  sink, 
And  only  a  trodden  and  broken  link 

Be  left  of  life's  jeweled  chain. 

The  road  may  look  easier  now,  my  friend, 

That  leadeth  forever  more  down; 
Gayer  flowers,  I  know,  by  the  wayside  bend, 
But  a  bitterness  with  their  bloom  will  blend, 

And  they  weave  but  a  fading  crown. 

The  road  may  look  difficult  from  afar, 

That  leadeth  forevermore  up; 
But  at  every  step  there's  a  nearer  star, 
A  laurel  branch  for  each  broken  bar, 

And  a  pearl  in  each  bitter  cup. 


446] 


There  are  only  two  roads,  then  oh,  wisely  spurn 

The  glittering,  tempting,  snare ; 
Should  you  strive  from  its  easy  course  to  return 
With  torn,  bleeding  feet,  you  would  climb  but  to  learn 

That  the  hardest  steeps  are  there. 

There  are  only  two  roads,  'tis  reason's  call, 
The  answer  is  yours  alone; 
Down!  faster  down!  to  a  fathomless  fall, 
Or  up  'till  the  mountains  of  triumph  tall 
Are  steps  to  a  victor's  throne. 


THE   REVEALING. 

How  do  we  know  how  we  love  each  other, 
We  who  are  never  for  long  apart; 
Daughter  and  son  or  sister  and  brother, 
Husband  and  wife  or  father  and  mother, 
Under  the  same  roof,  heart  to  heart? 

Sometimes  there  cometh  a  sad  revealing, 
O,  his  terrible,  terrible  name  is — Death; 
Who  enters  the  household  softly  stealing, 
And  puts  out  the  tapers  of  thought  and  feeling 
With  one  chill  blast  of  his  icy  breath! 

Comes  he  to  test  our  loves  and  prove  them, 

Loves  half  forgotten  in  life's  pursuit? 

O  but  we  learn  how  much  we  love  them 

When  the  cold  grave  clods  lie  dark  above  them, 

With  their  bright  eyes  closed  and  the  sweet  lips  mute! 


[447] 


"IN  ALL  THEIR  AFFLICTION  HE  WAS  AFFLICTED," 
(Isaiah  63:9.) 

Thou,  tempest  tossed  and  wrecked  in  troubled  waters, 
Hope's  anchor  cast,  and  wait  the  coming  morn; 
In  Bethlehem  to  Zion's  troubled  daughters, 
The  Saviour  Christ  was  born. 

Unto  Faith's  starry  vision  is  depicted 
The  sympathizing  Saviour  at  thy  side; 
He  in  all  thy  affliction  is  afflicted, 
The  angel  of  His  presence  is  thy  guide. 

Look  up,  tried  soul,  when  in  His  love  and  pity, 
He  who  redeemed  thee  unto  God  from  sin, 
Prepares  a  place  within  His  holy  city 
Where  thou  shalt  enter  in. 

A  rest,  a  refuge,  midst  those  Heavenly  places, 
The  Saviour's  love  prepares; 
A  waking  to  the  light  of  loved  lost  faces, 
Unchanged  save  in  the  loss  of  earthly  cares. 

Shall  we  remember  all  the  vain  regretting 

In  that  bright  world  ?    Dark  clouds  that  shadowed  this  ? 

No;  we  shall  waken  to  a  glad  forgetting 

Of  everything  save  bliss. 

For  in  Christ's  presence  can  be  felt  no  sorrow, 
Regrets  behind  or  threatening  fears  before; 
To-day  the  cross  with  Him,  but  oh,  to-morrow 
Pleasures  at  His  right  hand  forevermore ! 


448 


SONG   OF   REJOICING. 

Rejoice,  to-day  in  David's  house  a  prince  is  born, 

Who  shall  Isaiah's  prophecy  fulfill; 

And  lo,  above  the  little  town  of  Bethlehem 

The  guiding  star,  the  holy  star,  in  peace  stands  still. 

Chorus. 

Heaven's  gates  are  backward  swinging, 
Glad  angel  voices  over  all  are  singing; 
Now  behold  the  wise  men  bringing 
Their  precious  gifts  rejoicing  from  afar. 

He  is  born  the  captive  Nations  to  redeem, 
This  the  rapture  and  the  glory  of  their  theme ; 
And  the  shepherds  hear  the  singing  of  the  angel  throng, 
"Glory  to  God,  peace  and  good  will,"  this  is  their  song. 

Chorus. 

Precious  gifts  the  wise  men  bring, 

Glorious  songs  the  angels  sing, 

Men  and  angels  crown  Him  the  eternal  King. 


[449] 


SUMMER    CLOUDS. 
1884. 

I  watched  the  clouds  at  evening 
When  the  Summer  day  neared  its  close, 
As  above  the  sentinel  mountain  peaks 
Their  pinnacled  temples  rose. 

Mistily  blending  together 
The  faint,  fleecy  curtains  unfold ; 
In  the  sky's  magic  mirror  revealing, 
Linings  of  silver  and  gold. 

And  here  and  there  in  the  fluffy  foam, 
A  twinkling  star  shines  through;  . 
Mingling  a  golden  radiance 
With  the  filmy  tints  of  blue. 

'Till  they  seem  like  the  pearly  gateway, 
With  the  city  towers  just  beyond ; 
O'er  whose  walls  of  glittering  jasper 
Eternal  day  has  dawned. 

Oh!  I  almost  catch  the  melody 

That  the  angels  sing  in  Heaven ; 

As  I  watch  the  faint,  fair  Summer  clouds, 

O'er  the  sky's  blue  curtain  driven. 

And  my  soul  mounts  up  on  eagle's  wings, 
To  explore  the  realms  unknown, 
While  life  and  death  in  a  new,  strange  light, 
Seem  but  a  part  to  the  throne. 


450] 


When  I  think  of  the  joy  awaiting, 
Beyond  the  bier  and  the  shroud, 
Death  seems  but  a  transient  shadow, 
A  passing  Summer  cloud. 


THEY   WEEP   NO   MORE. 

They  weep  no  more,  the  glorified, 

For  whom  Heaven's  gates  have  opened  wide ; 

Upon  the  river's  peaceful  shore, 

Before  the  throne,  they  weep  no  more. 

They  weep  no  more,  in  cloudless  day 
Their  tears  forever  wiped  away; 
Their  sorrows  past,  their  heartaches  o'er, 
Their  fears  forgot,  they  weep  no  more. 

They  weep  no  more,  in  Heaven's  bright  clime, 
Who  measure  not  the  lapse  of  time; 
While  He,  who  all  their  burden  bore, 
Is  in  their  midst,  they  weep  no  more. 

They  weep  no  more,  ah !  would  we  weep, 
Could  we  unveil  Life's  mystery  deep, 
And  catch  one  passing  glimpse  before, 
Of  those  we  wept,  who  weep  no  more? 

Life's  ills,  how  trifling  would  they  grow, 
How  transient  every  earthly  woe; 
Our  faith  on  wings  of  song  would  soar, 
And  join  with  theirs,  to  weep  no  more. 


[451] 


WHO    IS    HE? 

Who  is  He  of  whom  they  tell  me, 
Who  this  Christ  of  whom  they  say 
He  was  born  in  Bethlehem's  manger 
And  He  lives  in  Heaven  to-day? 
That  His  life  taught  noble  doctrines 
That  should  influence  yours  and  mine; 
O,  so  wonderfully  human, 
Good  and  true,  but  not  divine! 

I  am  saddened  by  the  story, 
Wheresoe'er  I  hear  it  told; 

0  the  ring  of  worthless  metal, 
Counterfeiting  Heaven's  pure  gold! 
O,  this  Christ  of  skeptic  science ! 
Not  what  He  professed  to  be — 
Yet  a  human  moral  teacher, 

Lifted  up  for  you  and  me. 

1  would  turn  away  disheartened, 
Sick  and  weary  of  the  theme ; 
As  their  little  ones  are  turning, 

Who  have  dreamed  this  dreadful  dream. 
But  so  sweetly  through  the  storm  cry, 
As  to  Peter  on  the  sea, 
Comes  that  voice  divine,  that  speaketh 
From  the  life  of  Christ  to  me. 


[452] 


More  than  man — though  grandly  human; 
More  than  God  to  fallen  man 
Who  was  lost,  and  wrecked,  and  ruined, 
With  no  Christ  in  Heaven's  plan. 
Pause — before  you  rend  the  glory 
Of  God's  Holy  Word  apart; 
Read  from  Christ's  own  words  the  story 
Falling  on  the  human  heart. 
Stay  the  hand  that  reaches  blindly 
Where  His  sacred  truths  are  found, 
To  tear  down  for  cobweb  fictions — 
Holy,  holy  is  the  ground ! 


IF 


Powerless  shall  the  tempest  rage, 
Naught  can  take  thy  heritage; 
Life  in  bloom  from  dark  earth  grown, 
All  that's  sweet  and  true  thine  own. 
Open  heart  and  hand  to  hold, 
Riches  never  bought  or  sold; 
Let  life's  sweetness  come  to  you, 
If  your  life  be  sweet  and  true. 

If  your  life  be  sweet  and  true, 
All  such  things  belong  to  you; 
All  that's  sweet  and  true,  all  song, 
Fragrance,  beauty,  all  but  wrong, 
All  but  discord,  darkness,  death; 
All  the  joy  that  trembleth 
On  the  air  in  thought  and  form, 
Raindrop  music  in  the  storm, 
Raindrop  splendor  on  the  cloud, 
Angel  wings  above  the  shroud. 


[453] 


ASPIRATIONS. 

Could  I  but  write  some  living  thought, 
Some  truth  to  never  be  forgot; 
Some  pearl  of  feeling  shed  in  love 
That  had  its  origin  above, 
Or  sing  a  song  sublime. 
Could  I  but  know  their  influence  sweet 
Had  helped  to  make  the  work  complete 
Of  touching,  in  some  heart's  domain, 
Chords  that  shall  never  pause  again 
Throughout  the  bounds  of  time. 

And  when  this  pen  with  age  shall  rust, 

This  hand  be  summoned  dust  to  dust, 

This  weary  brain  forget  to  think, 

And  sundered  be  each  golden  link 

In  friendship's  jeweled  chain, 

Then  may  the  dreams  of  vanished  years, 

Bathed  in  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

Break  forth  like  burning  stars, 

And  guide  some  wanderer  with  their  light 

To  sunlit  heights  again. 

Then  gladly  would  I  leave  behind 
The  chains  that  now  my  spirit  bind; 
Then  peaceful  would  my  slumber  be 
Unbroken  as  a  summer  sea, 
Untroubled  by  regret. 
This  would  erase  life's  parting  pain, 
To  know  I  had  not  lived  in  vain; 
To  know  my  race  was  bravely  run, 
To  know  my  work  was  truly  done 
Before  my  day-star  set. 


[454] 


Is  it  for  fame?  Forbid  the  dream 
To  enter  an  unselfish  theme. 
But  oh !  to  bloom  like  some  sweet  flower 
Unseen  in  its  sequestered  bower, 
Its  modest  name  unknown, 
Wafting  sweet  fragrance  on  the  air, 
That  e'en  the  lowliest  child  may  share, 
Yet  satisfied  its  fame  untold, 
To  perish  in  the  silent  mold, 
Unmarked  by  sculptured  stone. 

Or  like  some  warbler  bubbling  o'er  with  song, 
Whose  clear  notes  ring,  the  forest  aisles  along; 
Who  hears  unchanged  remarks  of  slight  or  praise, 
Content  to  sing  through  dark  or  summer  days 
Pure  heartfelt  notes,  that  wealth  nor  glory  bring, 
But  leave  unchanged  the  lessons  they  have  taught 
When  the  sweet  singer  long  has  been  forgot 
Forever  in  the  minds  that  heard  to  glow 
'Till  hearts  that  know  their  fullness  overflow, 
And  in  a  grander  song  their  echo  sing. 


[455] 


THE   WAVES    AND   THE   ROCKS. 

O  the  beautiful,  azure,  white-capped  waves, 

And  the  grand,  grey  rocks, 
Where  the  sea-gull's  wing  in  the  breaker  laves, 

And  no  tempest  shocks. 

Brightly  the  sky's  blue  banner  streams 

O'er  the  blue  waves  now, 
And  the  daisy's  sapphire  gem  that  gleams 

From  the  boulder's  brow. 

Is  it  a  tale  that  the  wild  wind  raves, 

That  each  listener  shocks; 
Of  the  innocent,  smiling,  deep  blue  waves, 

And  the  grand  old  rocks? 

It  is  only  a  few  short  hours  they  say, 

Since  a  human  form 
Was  caught  by  the  waves  in  their  idle  play, 

Midst  no  wrathful  storm. 

But  just  for  their  cruel  sport  alone, 

'Gainst  the  sharp  rock  dashed ; 
With  their  vast  united  strength  upthrown, 

Where  the  white  surf  splashed. 

Struggling,  despairing,  reaching  out 

For  some  hold  to  clasp; 
'Till  the  treacherous  waves,  while  they  laugh  and  shout, 

Let  go  their  grasp. 

And  the  cruel  rocks  in  their  clammy  hold, 

Near  the  shell-strewn  beach, 
Lift  the  mangled  form,  now  still  and  cold, 

From  the  strong  waves  reach. 

[456] 


Ye  may  sport,  grey  rocks  and  breakers  blue, 

But  your  charms  have  fled; 
For  a  mother  and  sister  because  of  you 

Weep  o'er  their  dead. 

With  a  dirge  (through  each  swell  that  the  rough  shore  laves) 

Death's  phantom  stalks ; 
Ye  chill,  mocking,  rollicking,  treacherous  waves, 

Ye  cruel  rocks! 


LAUREL   DELL. 

Where  the  California  laurel  droops  its  slender  branches  low, 
'Till  they  play,  caress  and  quarrel  with  the  lake  by  which  they 

grow; 

Where  the  flowers  bloom  the  brightest, 
Bluest,  rosiest  and  whitest, 
Where  the  water-lilies  yellow 
Lie  like  golden  fruit  and  mellow 

On  the  waters,  azure  waters,  dreamy  waters  of  the  lake, 
There  to  wander,  dream  and  ponder, 
Care  and  toil  and  pain  forsake; 
Cast  them  madly,  sadly,  gladly, 

On  the  waters,  dreamy  waters,  there  to  sleep  and  never  wake. 
Here  the  butterfly  enraptured  rises  on  the  scented  gales, 
Gold  from  liquid  sunbeams  captured  glimmers  in  his  silken  sails 
As  he  floats  in  airy  motion 
O'er  the  miniature  blue  ocean 
To  the  cat-tail  flags  that  shiver, 
And  the  slender  reeds  that  quiver, 
O'er  the  waters,  azure  waters,  crystal  waters  of  the  lake. 


[457] 


RETRIBUTION 

No  human  law  can  reach  all  human  wrong, 
Only  a  God  can  judge  this  world  of  ours 
Where  cruel  hawks  disturb  the  birds  of  song, 
And  coarsest  weeds  choke  out  the  sweetest  flowers. 

Where  Infamy  can  break  sweet  Virtue  down, 
And  strew  her  lily  petals  in  the  dust; 
Then  turn  to  wear  applause's  proffered  crown, 
And  fill  a  throne  of  trust. 

Where  Tyranny  still  holds  in  chains  her  slaves, 
And  helpless  under  Freedom's  stripes  and  stars; 
Where  some  who  Honor  crowns  are  greater  knaves, 
Than  some  who  languish  behind  prison  bars. 

Where  little  lives,  oft  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Distorting  all  their  promised  symmetry, 
Grow  up  to  lie  before  some  adverse  gust, 
Fallen  and  lost  as  snowflakes  from  the  sky. 

Where  slander,  cruelty  and  dark  deceit, 

Make  misery  to  mar  a  world  of  bliss, 

What  human  law  for  these  can  Justice  mete, 

Or  quell  the  flood  that  drowns  earth's  happiness? 

We  suffer,  body,  soul  and  heart  and  mind, 
Woe  for  which  we  can  find  no  cure,  no  cause ; 
The  direst  troubles  that  afflict  mankind 
Are  penalties  of  violated  laws. 

Wronged  nature  crushed  by  frailty  and  fraud 
Cries  out  for  justice  and  approves  the  plan 
That  all  shall  stand  before  the  bar  of  God, 
Who  only  can  just  judgment  mete  to  man. 

[458] 


But  God  looks  down  from  above  and  sees 
Life's  little  drama  through  and  through; 
And  clear  to  Him  are  the  mysteries 
Of  wrongs  and  crimes  that  elude  our  view. 

The  grave  of  the  murdered  heart  and  brain, 
The  brow  that  is  set  with  the  mark  of  Cain; 
And  His  retribution  comes  swift  and  sure 
As  the  iron  wheels  of  the  evening  train. 

They  yet  may  pity  who  of  vengeance  dream, 
When  falls  the  feeble  arm  of  human  might; 
And  the  Great  Judge,  o'er  countless  worlds  supreme, 
Makes  all  things  right. 

Build  strong  the  fortress  of  thy  character, 
Midst  crumbling  reputation,  honor,  fame, 
To  stand  before  the  eternal  judgment  bar, 
Acquitted  of  all  blame. 


459] 


COME. 

Look,  when  Mercy's  day  is  past 

Heaven's  pearly  gates  have  closed  at  last; 

Within  victorious  millions  shout, 

And  the  lost  Nations  wail  without! 

Was  it  their  crimes  that  sealed  their  doom? 

No;  Christ  has  plead  with  them  to  come, 

Not  Earth's  most  heinous  sins  forgiven 

Have  barred  one  deathless  soul  from  Heaven. 

They  come  to-morrow  and  too  late, 

To  enter  at  the  pearly  gate; 

To-day  is  Mercy's  open  gate, 

They  come  to-morrow  and  too  late. 

To-night  be  strong  O  faltering  heart, 
And  bid  the  tempting  one  depart ; 
Come  from  the  darkness  into  light, 
While  Jesus  calls,  oh,  come  to-night! 
To-morrow,  oh,  the  uncertain  doom, 
Christ  and  His  mercy  may  be  gone; 
God  and  His  justice,  in  thy  sight 
May  stand  where  Jesus  stands  to-night! 

To-night  the  evil  one  stands  near 
To  turn  thy  courage  into  fear; 
'Tis  he  who  bars  the  living  way, 
'Tis  Satan's  voice  that  whispers  "Stay." 

To-morrow,  oh,  the  dread  abyss, 
Where  sinking  hope  and  happiness, 
The  foolish  lingering  wait! 
Come  from  that  brink  of  danger,  come, 
That  dread  abyss  may  be  thy  doom; 
To-morrow  be  too  late! 


To-night  the  loving  Saviour  stands 
With  gentle  face,  with  beckoning  hands ; 
O  heart,  with  sin  and  anguish  dumb, 
'Tis  Jesus'  voice  that  whispers  "Come ! " 


LOST   HOPE. 

The  flowers  will  all  come  back  again, 
The  flowers  that  faded  on  hill  and  plain; 
The  birds  will  return  another  Spring, 
The  birds  that  a  while  have  ceased  to  sing; 
But  Hope  that  died  with  their  song  and  bloom 
Will  wake  no  more  from  its  Winter  tomb. 

The  stars  will  twinkle  another  night, 
The  stars  that  faded  before  our  sight; 
And  the  sun  that  sank  in  the  sorrowful  west 
Shall  wake  like  the  birds  from  their  nightly  rest; 
But  Hope  that  illumined  the  day  and  night 
Has  faded  forever,  forever,  from  sight. 


THE  FALSE  AND  THE  TRUE. 

Alone,  alone,  with  my  heart,  alone  with  my  heart  to-night! 
Was  it  an  angel  passing  by  swift  in  her  vesture  white, 
Or  a  demon  flashing  an  evil  leer, 
Bold  in  his  blackness  to  venture  near, 
Haunting  the  place  with  a  ghostish  fear? 

God  is  in  Heaven  to-night!    Is  He  on  earth? 

Writhing  in  misery,  reveling  in  mirth, 

Man  is  on  earth,  O  horrible  man, 

Under  iniquity's  terrible  ban! 

Go  where  he  goeth  to-night  if  you  can. 

Go  where  he  goeth  to-night,  come  not  forever  to  tell 

How  thou  hast  trodden  on  earth,  yes  on  earth,  the  veriest  border 

of  Hell, 

Come  not  to  tell  me  of  man's  awful  blight, 
That  wrong  in  his  breast  is  the  victor  of  right, 
I  know  it,  I  know  it  to-night! 

That  evil,  evil  is  king,  and  man  but  a  trembling  slave, 

That  evil  passions  have    wrought    his  chains    and  darkness  is 

digging  his  grave; 

That  on  womanhood's  crowned  brow  burneth  a  darker  brand 
Than  the  mark  by  which  guilty  Cain  from  the  presence  of  God 

was  banned; 
Oh,  the  brand  that  is  on  her  brow ;  oh,  the  blood  that  is  on  her 

hand! 

Why  does  the  world  not  sink  with  its  burden  of  guilt  and  woe, 

Tottering  on  the  abysmal  brink  of  the  chasm  that  yawns  below  ? 

Turn  from  the  dens  of  vice  with  their  gloom, 

Come  to  the  dwellings  of  virtue,  come 

To  the  house  of  God  and  the  Christian  home. 


[462] 


Come  where  an  angel  kneels  in  prayer  for  the  erring  feet, 
Whose  voice  is  drowned  by  the  noise  that  reels  up  from  the 

drunken  street; 

Come  where  manhood  and  womanhood 
Staunch  through  the  dust  of  the  fray  have  stood; 
Thank  God  for  the  true  and  the  good! 


THE   PATHS    OF    PEACE. 

Perhaps  God  knew  I  was  too  frail  to  meet 
Life's  rough  storm  tossing  or  its  scorching  heat, 
So  He  made  smooth,  quiet  pathways  for  my  feet, 
Where  dewy  roses  bloomed  and  birds  sang  sweet 
Beside  still  waters,  where  rude  tempests  lull, 
And  even  sorrow  seemeth  beautiful. 

No  fierce,  wild  joy  is  mine,  no  stormy  woe, 

Calmly  He  leads  where  quiet  rivers  flow; 

This  is  my  life  to-day,  I  cannot  know 

How  long  'twill  last  or  why  God  wills  it  so; 

In  these  green  pastures,  through  these  quiet  days, 

I'll  tune  my  heart  to  incense  sweet,  and  praise. 

O  loving  kindness,  broad,  and  deep,  and  wide! 
O  mercy,  scattered  free  on  every  side ! 
O  peace  that  every  grief  hath  sanctified! 
Thou,  Thou  art  God  and  Thou  for  man  hast  died! 


[463] 


MOONLIGHT  BOAT  SONG 

The  night's  pale  queen  her  silvery  sheen, 

Has  flung  the  waves  across ; 
While  'round  our  boat  in  gleeful  sport 

The  pretty  wavelets  toss; 
Then  splash,  splash,  dash,  dash, 

Ye  merry  oars  at  play! 
Though  shadows  veil  the  distant  sail, 

JTis  moonlight  on  the  bay. 

The  moonbeams  fall  on  hut  and  hall, 

And  bathe  the  frowning  cliff, 
While  shadows  stalk  'round  crag  and  rock, 

As  on  our  frail  bark  drifts; 
Then  splash,  splash,  dash,  dash! 

Gone  is  the  twilight  gray, 
The  splendor  gilds  the  distant  hills, 

'Tis  moonlight  on  the  bay. 

The  island  turf  and  beaten  surf 

Are  steeped  in  mellow  light, 
Though  day's  proud  king  is  journeying 

Beyond  the  western  height; 
Then  splash,  splash,  dash,  dash, 

Ye  merry  oars  at  play! 
The  night's  pale  queen  has  spread  her  sheen 

Across  the  twilight  bay. 


[464] 


SHE   IS    NOT   GONE. 

She  is  not  gone,  they  do  not  know  who  say  it, 
How  ever  present  is  she  in  my  thoughts, 
The  rainbow  fades  not  'till  its  threads  of  light 
With  Life's  strong  web  are  wrought; 
The  sunset  fades  not  'till  its  shreds  sun-spangled 
By  the  Soul's  loom  are  caught ; 
The  threads  of  other  lives  with  ours  entangled 
Can  never  be  forgot. 

She  is  not  gone, 

Some  little  word  just  how  I  heard  her  say  it; 

Some  little  song  I  heard  her  sing  and  play  it; 

Some  little  thought,  or  look,  Time  cannot  stay  it ; 

Her  life  that  still  goes  on. 

The  face  still  smiling  on  me  faded  never 

Through  time  and  space; 

The  love  that  lived  and  lives,  and  shall  forever, 

Still  hath  its  place. 


[465] 


THE   OTHER   SIDE. 

I  have  looked  on  the  other  side  of  life, 

The  side  men  seldom  view, 

I  have  stopped  my  ears  to  earth's  jarring  sound, 

I  have  veiled  my  eyes,  and  on  holy  ground 

I  have  planted  my  feet  anew. 

And  I've  seen  the  nobler  side  of  life, 

And  I've  found  in  this  estate 

That  the  things  sometimes  least  prized  on  earth 

Are  really  of  the  richest  worth, 

Somewhere  in  Truth's  estimate. 

And  I  fret  no  more  'gainst  the  prison  bars 
Where  my  soul  beat  deaf  and  blind; 
For  I  know  to-day  that  the  best  success 
Is  not  to  be  blessed,  but  to  live  and  bless, 
And  peace  is  the  pearl  I  find. 

I  flutter  no  wings  for  forbidden  things 
That  never  were  meant  for  me; 
'Tis  sweeter  to  know  in  the  highest  plan 
I  am  doing  the  very  best  I  can, 
Whatever  that  best  may  be. 


[466] 


THE  WAY,  THE  TRUTH  AND  THE  LIFE 

Lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  life, 

Groping  in  doubt  and  mystery, 
Sweetly  the  voice  of  Jesus  speaks : 

"I  am  the  Way." 

Stumbling  o'er  errors,  creeds  and  doubts, 

To  hoary  age  and  heedless  youth, 
Softly  the  voice  of  Jesus  speaks: 

"I  am  the  Truth." 

Falling  beside  the  weary  road, 

Wounded  and  dying  in  the  strife, 
Gently  the  voice  of  Jesus  speaks : 

"I  am  the  Life." 

Lost,  stumbling,  falling,  still,  oh  still! 

Above  life's  discord,  wrong  and  strife, 
The  voice  of  Jesus  speaks  and  says : 

"I  am  the  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Life." 


[467] 


A   PETITION. 

Father,  the  way  is  dark,  Thy  child  is  lost, 

Lost  on  life's  winding  road; 
Take  Thou  my  hand  until  the  wild  be  crossed, 

Bear  Thou  my  load. 

My  heavy  load,  the  burden  of  my  heart, 

My  weight  of  care; 
Oh,  let  me  bring  it  to  Thee  where  Thou  art, 

And  leave  it  there! 

Give  me  the  promise  now  for  which  I  wait, 

That  Thou  wilt  lead; 
That  no  vague  phantom  voice  of  chance  or  fate 

Shall  bid  me  speed. 

I  dare  not  trust  the  dearest  friend  on  earth 

To  choose  my  path, 
Nor  pray  Thee  send  the  strongest  angel  forth, 

High  Heaven  hath. 

Hearken  my  Father,  unto  Thee  I  call, 

To  Thee  alone, 
Come  to  me  quickly,  quickly  lest  I  fall, 

Ere  light  is  shone. 

Clasp  Thou  my  trembling  hand  in  thine  so  strong, 

Then  shall  I  speed 
Gladly  and  swiftly,  joyfully  along 

Where  Thou  dost  lead. 


[468] 


EVERY  HEART  KNOWETH  ITS  BITTERNESS 

Every  heart  knoweth  its  bitterness, 
Every  spirit  its  own  distress; 
Every  life  hath  its  pain  and  care, 
Every  traveler  his  load  to  bear. 

O,  shall  we  sink  'neath  our  given  load, 
Hopeless  and  weak  by  the  dusty  road? 
Thinking  of  all  who  must  journey  there, 
Ours  is  the  hardest  load  to  bear! 

Look  where  the  wounded  and  worn  have  trod, 
Sprinkling  the  pathway  with  tears  and  blood; 
Look  where  the  dying  have  struggled  on, 
Look  where  the  burdened  hosts  have  gone. 

Hopeless  and  crippled,  and  blind,  and  old, 
Grasping  their  burden  with  feeble  hold ; 
Cheering  the  journey  with  jest  and  song, 
Clearing  our  way  as  they  passed  along. 

O,  if  our  hearts  are  but  strong  and  true, 
We  shall  not  stumble  the  long  way  through! 
O,  if  our  feet  are  but  brave  and  swift, 
Many  another's  load  we'll  lift! 

What  if  our  hearts  a  bitterness  know, 
Weigh  it  against  earth's  great  deep  of  woe; 
Only  a  drop  in  the  world's  distress, 
Every  heart  knoweth  its  bitterness. 


[469] 


LIFE'S    POSSIBILITIES. 

0  could  I  have  the  choosing 
Of  what  my  life  should  be, 

1  would  make  it  all  so  lovely, 
So  grand,  and  broad,  and  free, 
So  strong  in  its  high  endeavor, 
So  sweet  in  its  harmony. 

Over  and  over  and  over 

Will  the  useless  wish  repeat, 

I  have  hushed  it,  bravely  crushed  it 

Like  a  flower  beneath  my  feet, 

But  only  to  make  its  fragrance 

Grow  stronger  and  more  sweet. 

What  would  my  life  be  think  you 

Could  I  sit  me  down  and  plan 

For  myself  each  year  and  moment 

That  maketh  the  earthly  span  ? 

O,  the  perfect  joy  of  living 

With  never  a  pain  or  care, 

With  never  a  blighted  prospect, 

And  never  a  chill  despair, 

With  never  a  weary  burden, 

Of  thankless  toil  to  bear! 

I  would  make  it  a  path  of  beauty, 

Where  loveliest  flowers  would  grow ; 

I  would  make  it  a  path  of  duty 

Where  an  angel  would  gladly  go, 

I  would  cast  all  the  sin  and  sorrow, 

All  the  dread  of  my  heart  aside, 

No  evil  to  bear  or  borrow, 

No  triumph  to  be  denied ; 

I  would  spend  all  the  days  in  winning 

Life's  noblest  and  grandest  good, 

I  would  miss  all  the  clouds  that  darken 


[470] 


The  promise  of  womanhood; 

Life  is  a  strange  awakening, 

And  death  is  a  stranger  sleep; 

We  wake  from  our  infant  slumber, 

And  from  childhood's  roseate  dream, 

To  learn  at  first  vaguely  and  dimly 

That  things  are  not  what  they  seem; 

That  the  bright  coals  are  hot  and  burning 

That  our  eager  fingers  grasp, 

That  we  cannot  prison  the  sunbeams 

That  our  hands  so  long  to  clasp ; 

And  later,  that  disappointment 

And  pain  are  the  price  of  breath, 

And  one  day  we  wake  to  ponder 

The  dread,  dread  mystery  of  death; 

And  thicker  and  faster  around  us 

Life's  problems  like  snowflakes  fall, 

Till  they  weigh  us  down  with  their  burden, 

And  cover  us  with  their  pall; 

But  the  future  is  dark  beyond  me, 

Not  a  single  year  can  I  plot, 

I  must  do  the  best  before  me, 

Make  the  most  of  my  given  lot; 

Take  the  pleasure  and  pain  of  living 

With  a  cheerful  heart  and  strong, 

Nourish  the  good  within  me, 

And  trample  the  sin  and  wrong, 

And  strive,  though  my  feeble  striving, 

Win  never  a  longed-for  prize; 

And  live,  though  the  boon  of  living 

Be  death  in  a  strange  disguise. 

Forgetting  the  ideal  splendor, 

The  "might-be,"  and  the  "wish,"  and  "guess," 

And  the  little  "ifs"  that  flutter 

Like  rose-petals  on  the  grass. 


[471] 


NONE  SHALL  BE  LOST  WHOM  GOD  CAN  SAVE 

Could  we  only  realize  God's  great  love  for  us, 
Tearing  off  Doubt's  dark  disguise, 
Looking  with  Faith's  cloudless  eyes, 
Would  we  grieve  Him  thus  ? 

Sometimes  we  may  almost  feel  that  God  scarce  would  care 
Should  the  last  dread  thunder's  peal 
Set  our  doom's  eternal  seal 
In  the  gulf — Despair. 

Or  like  some  great  judge  austere,  righteous  in  His  wrath, 
Just,  unchangeable,  severe 
One  to  honor,  One  to  fear 
For  the  power  He  hath. 

God,  who  made  the  world  so  fair,  God  who  gave  us  breath, 
Lo,  the  sparrow  knows  His  care ! 
Will  He  ought  of  effort  spare, 
View  unmoved  our  death? 

What  last  hope  would  we  neglect  that  might  save  a  dying  friend  ? 
O  the  horror  to  reflect 
On  one  life  eternal  wrecked 
Drifting  to  its  end! 

"God  is  justice,"  we  may  cry,  fearing  from  His  throne  above, 
For  our  sins  He  bids  us  die, 
While  the  holy  words  reply: 
"God  is  love." 

Love  repining  at  our  fall,  Love  rejoicing  to  forgive, 
Love  that  hears  our  every  call, 
None  might  perish,  but  that  all 
Turn  to  Him  and  live. 


[472] 


O  that  we  could  comprehend  dimly  the  great  height  and  depth 
Who  His  pledge  of  love  did  send, 
Through  that  kind  and  loving  friend 
Who  o'er  Lazarus  wept! 

'Round  our  souls  are  Satan's  coils  strong  to  weigh  us  down, 
O  that  Love  that  tireless  toils, 
Robbing  death  of  noble  spoils, 
Calling  to  our  crown ! 

O  inhuman  would  we  prove,  carelessly  engrossed, 
Mocking  all  a  Father's  love, 
Love  that  warmeth  from  above, 
Ere  His  child  is  lost ! 


ARCATA 

O  green  hills  of  Arcata,  I  come  thy  Summer's  guest, 

As  some  tired  bird  from  flying  above  the  sea's  unrest, 

As  some  unquiet  spirit  longing  for  Nature's  psalm, 

And  even  now  I  hear  it,  that  symphony  of  calm; 

Tis  breathed  by  rocks  and  mosses,  'tis  sung  by  stream  and  hill, 

And  all  life's  petty  crosses  for  very  shame  are  still ! 

O  Nature,  lovely  Nature,  thou  hast  no  fevered  dreams ! 

There's  quiet  in  thy  cloistered  nooks,  there's  coolness  in  thy 

streams, 

Lend  me  thy  daisy  pillow  to  rest  my  weary  brain, 
Soft  breeze  and  waving  willow  chant  ye  my  slumber  strain. 


[473] 


TRUE   WORTH. 

This  is  no  place  for  envyings  and  strife, 
Where  Death  stalks  to  and  fro 
With  careless  tread  among  the  flowers  of  life 
And  bends  them  low. 

No  place  for  bigotry  and  high  conceit, 
Where  Time  with  ruthless  hand 
Lays  low  the  forest  monarchs  at  his  feet, 
And  all  that  man  has  planned. 

We  may  fall  short  of  all  our  highest  aims, 
But  God  alone  can  see 

Deeper  than  he  who  censures  us  and  blames 
All  that  we  tried  to  be. 


MANZANITA    BLOOMS 

Not  fairer  the  blossoms  of  April  days, 

Or  June  aweary  with  gay  bouquets, 

Or  Autumn  glowing  with  leaves  and  berries, 

Or  faint  with  the  fragrance  of  lighted  rooms, 

Than  the  honeyed  garland  that  Nature  carries 

In  the  heart  of  the  Western  Februaries 

When  the  manzanita  blooms. 

But  there  on  the  sunny  upland  slopes, 

And  crowning  the  rocky  hills, 

Where  the  mountain  oak  tosses  grey  moss  plumes, 

They  open,  the  sweet  manzanita  blooms. 

And  soon  shall  their  fragrant  pink-tipped  flakes 

Weight  the  bending  branch  where  the  bird-song  wakes, 

'Till  the  hill  is  white  with  their  fragrant  snows, 

And  the  first  March  wind  through  the  tree-top  blows. 


[474] 


BE   TRUE. 

Though  fortune  frown  on  all  thy  cherished  plans, 
Though  fades  the  bow  that  life's  horizon  spans, 
Though  promise  withers  on  earth's  barren  sands, 
Be  true. 

Though  friends  forsake  thee  in  thine  hour  of  need, 
Though  bruised  and  trodden  like  a  broken  reed, 
Thou  shalt  arise  if  every  thought  and  deed 
Be  true. 

Not  long  to  earth  shall  truth  in  sorrow  cling, 
Not  long  on  barren  sands  lie  withering, 
Destined  forever  'midst  the  stars  to  sing 
Be  true. 

Be  true,  for  truth  shall  triumph  in  the  end, 
Be  true,  for  truth  shall  never  lack  a  friend ; 
If  thou  wouldst  soar  and  evermore  ascend, 
Be  true. 

Up  rugged  steeps  thy  weary  feet  may  go, 
If  thou  wouldst  hear  the  tempest  beat  below, 
If  thou  wouldst  seas  of  endless  sunshine  know — 
Be  true. 

If  thou  wouldst  face  the  lurid  storm  unawed, 
Rise  from  the  foggy  air  and  quaking  sod, 
Unto  thyself,  thy  calling  and  thy  God, 
Be  true. 


[475] 


SUCCESS   AND    FAILURE. 

Who  drains  the  goblet  of  Success 

To  find  it  ever  brimming, 
Proves  not  to  me  by  simply  this 
His  undisputed  worthiness 
To  wear  the  crown  of  kingliness 

That  pride  is  often  dimming. 

Who  finds  but  Failure's  bitter  dregs 
In  some  great  undertaking, 

Proves  not  by  simply  this  to  me 

That  rightly  and  deservedly 

He  forfeits  true  nobility, 
All  claim  to  honors  breaking. 

'Tis  glorious  to  succeed  and  wear 

Success's  living  laurel, 
But  when  ennobling  Effort's  crown 
But  serves  to  weight  that  effort  down, 
As  growing  reefs  of  high  renown 

Reveal  the  hidden  coral. 

If  some  vain  ego  of  disdain 

Usurp  the  throne  empyreal, 
Some  proud  usurper  to  displace 
King  Kindness  and  each  kindred  grace, 
And  Queen  Humility's  sweet  face 
Of  charms  ethereal. 

Success  becomes  poor  Failure's  twin 

Blessed  with  prosperity, 
One,  plunged  in  misery  and  want, 
Bearing  low  Failure's  dismal  taunt, 
The  other,  in  delight  to  flaunt 

His  title  of  feigned  verity. 

[476] 


Yet  Failure  hath  ofttimes  a  worth 

To  minds  too  high  to  grovel, 
He,  who  beholds  his  chosen  star 
Grow  day  by  day  more  faint  and  far, 
Yet  lets  not  this  his  nature  mar, 

Is  great  without  approval. 

And  see'st  thou  one  whom  worth  equips, 
To  be  the  great  of  sect  or  nation, 

Yet  through  whose  wisdom-guarded  lips 

No  word  of  egotism  slips; 

And  through  whose  daily  acts  there  trips 
No  phantom  of  self-approbation, 

That  one  sets  first  a  Christian  grace 

In  Grandeur's  jeweled  coronet; 
That  pearl  whose  heaven-enkindled  rays 
Shine  on  undimmed  by  slight  or  praise, 
Rebuking  false  Ambition's  gaze, 
Dazed  by  Fame's  golden  parapet. 


[477] 


BEHOLD    HE    PRAYETH 

No  mind  so  lost  in  error's  rayless  night 

That  fervent  prayer  will  fail 

To  reach  by  Faith's  strong  arm  beyond  the  veil 

Of  reason's  doubt, 

And  to  the  stars  gone  out 

Turn  on  God's  light. 

And  shall  prayer  not  avail  for  you — for  me 
In  all  things — at  all  times  ?    Look  back  and  see 
The  power  of  evil  in  one  life  defied. 
The  prosecutor  of  God's  saints  prevail 
And  rise  to  preach  the  Christ  he  crucified. 

Wanderers  in  error,  false  belief  and  doubt, 
The  light  of  truth  from  Heaven 

Shines  'round  about. 
No  seeker  for  Truth's  pure  and  priceless  gem 

Shall  be  denied, 
No  traveler  to  a  new  Jerusalem 

Need  want  a  guide. 

No  heavy  load  too  great  for  Him  to  bear, 
No  burden  borne,  too  little  for  His  care; 
And  oh,  to  live  above  the  crush  of  doubt, 
To  walk  with  God  among  those  higher  lights, 
Where  when  the  flickering  lamps  of  earth  go  out 
Heaven's  beacon  fires  illume  the  darkest  nights! 

No  more  a  slave  to  fear,  and  doubt,  and  dread, 
Earth  'neath  my  feet,  Heaven  opened  overhead ; 
From  Faith's  low  altar,  where  in  prayer  it  bends 
This,  the  first  heaven  to  which  the  soul  ascends. 
Ascends  to  learn  that  many  things  but  seem, 
That  Heaven  is  real  and  only  earth  a  dream; 


478] 


Then  tell  me  not  that  anything  shall  stand 
Before  God's  will,  His  child's  divine  desire, 
God,  who  could  lift  the  ocean  in  His  hand 
To  quench  the  violence  of  consuming  fire. 
By  human  reasoning  wrong  shall  win  the  fight, 
In  utter  darkness  go  out  star  and  sun — 
The  Christian  waits,  the  triumph  of  the  right — 
Behold  he  prayeth  and  it  shall  be  done. 


MY    CHOICE 

Go  revel  in  banquet,  and  dress,  and  wine, 

In  worldly  pleasures  without  restraint, 

Be  triumphs  of  beauty  and  splendor  thine, 

Be  this  thy  choice,  but  it  is  not  mine 

As  I  kneel  at  the  grave  of  my  little  saint. 

I  would  rather  pass  like  my  little  May 

With  a  victor's  tread  through  the  gates  of  day, 

With  a  song  of  faith  and  an  angel's  smile, 

Than  be  queen  of  the  world  for  a  little  while. 

I  see  not  the  coffin  that  holds  her  dust, 

The  grave  where  she  slumbers  is  left  below, 

As  borne  on  the  wings  of  her  Christian  trust 

To  the  land  where  she  liveth  my  glad  thoughts  go ; 

I  shall  see  her  again,  for  she  is  not  dead, 

"I  will  wait  in  Heaven  'till  you  come,"  she  said. 


[479] 


O   DWELLER  IN  THE  DREAMY  PAST 

Sad  and  sweet,  sad  and  sweet,  the  heavenly  notes  are  falling ; 
Throb  and  beat,  throb  and  beat,  O  heart,  that  hears  them  calling. 
Come  back,  come  back  while  day-beams  last, 
O  dweller  in  the  dreamy  past ! 

Soft  and  low,  soft  and  low,  the  organ  tones  are  floating; 
Sad  and  slow,  sad  and  slow,  their  mournful  waves  unnoting. 
Wake  up,  with  vanished  clouds  o'ercast, 
O  dweller  in  the  dreamy  past ! 

Far  away,  far  away,  let  phantom  dreams  be  banished; 
Oh,  to-day,  oh  to-day,  dream  not  of  moments  vanished, 
Wake  up,  the  hours  fly  swift  and  fast, 
O  dweller  in  the  dreamy  past ! 

Long  ago,  long  ago,  those  pulseless  dreams  were  buried ; 
Sad  and  slow,  sad  and  slow,  their  unseen  pall  was  carried. 
The  hope-starred  future  still  thou  hast, 
O  dweller  in  the  dreamy  past ! 


THE  HEAVENLY  HOPE 

Take  not  this  hope,  this  high-born  hope,  I  plead, 
World,  whose  loud  voices  tell  me  to  forget  it, 
For  when  those  voices  like  lost  waves  recede 
How  shall  I  waken  sadly  to  regret  it ! 
O,  take  not  that  for  which  man  lives  to  learn, 
Cold  World,  thou  givest  nothing  in  return! 

Take  not  this  hope,  this  Heavenly  hope  away, 
Let  not  ambition,  love  or  sorrow  drown  it 
Until  I  stand  within  Thy  courts  that  day 
When  light  celestial  in  Thy  sight  shall  crown  it; 
Take  not  this  hope,  this  one  great  hope  away, 
This  be  my  prayer  until  I  cease  to  pray. 


GOD'S  GIFT  TO  MAN. 

Life  is  the  greatest  gift  of  God  to  man, 

The  one  foundation  of  His  perfect  plan, 

Whereon  the  great  Almighty  Architect 

His  boundless,  endless  structure  doth  erect ; 

Thereon  the  walls  of  Triumph  have  their  hold 

And  Joy's  bright  columns  hewn  from  Hope's  pure  gold 

Spring  up  to  part  the  curtains  of  the  skies 

And  prop  the  farthest  vaults  of  Paradise. 

Life  is  the  root  of  Eden's  loftiest  tree 

Whose  ripened  fruit  is  immortality, 

All  joys,  all  triumphs  from  its  branches  grow, 

While  at  the  root  God's  love  in  streams  doth  flow ; 

Leaves,  buds  and  blossoms  and  the  ripened  fruit 

Are  perfected  and  nourished  by  the  root; 

Let  stern  decay  its  hidden  fountain  doom, 

And  note  the  sudden  blight  of  fruit  and  bloom. 


REST 
(Phil.  4:6.) 

Think  of  it — to  have  spent  long  months  of  worry 

And  anxious  prayer  and  nervous,  useless  dread, 

Over  a  misery  that  like  these  waters 

Is  coming,  gone,  and  now  forever  fled. 

It  is  the  things  that  never  come  upon  us 

That  scar  our  souls  and  turn  our  tresses  grey; 

Learn,  oh  my  soul,  from  these  thy  many  lessons, 

To  rest  and  pray ! 

God  gives  us  all  the  time  there  is  for  labor,  and  love,  and  rest, 

Then  why  this  needless  rush,  and  fret,  and  hurry? 

He  hath  all  power  in  Heaven  and  earth — why  worry 

When  just  to  calmly  work  and  pray  is  best? 

We'd  cheat  old  Time  of  half  his  worry  wrinkles 

If  we  could  cast  aside  this  useless  care, 

That  little  star  just  waits,  and  shines,  and  twinkles, 

That  sun  a  universe  with  glory  sprinkles — 

God  set  them  there. 

No  work  is  asked  for  which  no  power  is  given, 

And  what  is  least  on  earth  may  be  the  best  in  heaven. 

That  pinioned  voice,  that  moves  hearts,  nations,  thrones, 

For  truth  and  right ; 

And  that  winged  soul,  that  flutters  far  from  sight, 

Amid  the  tempest  spray  on  crags  and  stones, 

To  soothe  some  helpless  birdling's  weak  despair, 

Must  fly  alike  to  God  for  rest,  and  in  His  care 

Fold  their  tired  wings  in  prayer. 


482] 


TO  HIM  THAT  OVERCOMETH 

When  we  have  overcome  all  things 
That  were  so  hard  to  meet  down  here, 
I  shall  not  care  for  crowns  or  wings, 
Or  anything  that  angels  wear ; 
And  yet  there  will  be  something  sweet, 
I  cannot  half  express  the  thought, 
But  with  tired  heart  and  aching  feet, 
A  little  glimpse  my  soul  has  caught, 
When  some  soul-height  in  pain  is  won, 
Of  something  brighter  than  the  sun. 

To  him  that  overcometh,  oh ! 

I  cannot  care  for  throne  or  crown, 

My  soul  has  met  and  wrestled  so 

With  powers  that  tried  to  drag  it  down; 

I  only  know  I  did  not  fall, 

But  met  and  overcame  them  all; 

And  yet  not  I,  some  unseen  force, 

And  who  shall  say  that  Heaven's  white  horse 

Bore  not  a  silent  warrior  forth 

To  fight  between  me  and  the  foe, 

Because  I  prayed  and  struggled  so, 

Though  tired  and  spent? 


[483] 


A   SUMMER   MORNING 

Welcome,  glad  morning,  night's  sable  curtain 
Rolls  from  the  valley  and  mountains  away ; 
Bursts  the  great  sun  forth  in  glorious  splendor, 
Herald  of  morning  and  king  of  the  day) 

Far  in  the  distance  the  brooklet  is  singing, 
The  honey-bee  hums  o'er  the  fair,  fragrant  flower, 
High  in  the  tree-tops  sweet  bird  songs  are  ringing ; 
And  far  to  the  west  the  tall  mountain-peaks  tower. 

Up  in  the  oak  tree,  canaries  sing  gaily, 
Linnets  perch,  chirping,  on  trellis  and  wall; 
Sweet,  merry  warblers,  ye  gladden  me,  daily, 
As  down  from  the  tree-tops  your  merry  notes  fall. 

Beautiful  picture,  mountain  and  green  wood, 
Clad  in  rich  robes,  like  a  fairy-queen's  song, 
Radiant  Summer !  to  thy  great  storehouse 
All  of  these  beauties  and  wonders  belong. 


[484 


TO   THE   TREES 

Trees  of  the  forest  and  the  wooded  glen, 
Say  will  ye  claim  companionship  with  men 
Who  with  a  smaller,  weaker  arm  have  dared 
To  spill  thy  life-sap  on  thy  native  sward, 
And  with  remorseless  hand  thy  fibers  rend, 
Say,  canst  thou  make  this  enemy  thy  friend? 
Not  ours  to  choose,  a  thousand  gifts  attest 
That  we  by  thy  existence  are  but  blest, 
We  at  thy  feet  might  sit  and  learn, 
Nor  feel  a  spark  of  just  resentment  burn ; 
But  ye  possess  a  more  than  human  grace 
To  smile  upon  the  spoilers  of  thy  race. 


WORTH   WHILE. 

Yet  after  all,  who  knows? 
To  make  a  real  living,  growing  rose 
Grow  stem  and  leaf  and  blossom  from  the  soil, 
May  be  as  glorious  as  to  paint  in  oil 
Its  perfectness. 

To  preach  great  sermons  may  not  be  more  great 
Than  to  live  holy  doctrines,  to  create 
Immortal  poems,  not  more  than  to  feel 
Ennobling  songs,  that  wreathed  in  numbers  real, 
Flow  forth  to  bless. 

Then  shall  I  count  one  little  act  as  naught? 
There  is  no  little  work — no  idle  thought; 
Each  shall  accomplish — if  for  good  designed — 
Part  of  the  plan  of  the  Creator's  mind 
For  human  happiness. 


[485 


BE  PATIENT  MY  SPIRIT 

Be  patient  my  spirit, 

This  one  thing  is  left  thee — 
Thy  duty, 

The  lightnings  of  tempests  have  cleft  thee 
Still,  only  to  bear  it, 

The  burden  down  pressing, 
Will  it  bring  thee  no  blessing, 
No  beauty 

Of  cross-purchased  crown  that  the  patient  inherit, 
Of  such  perfect  joy  that  'twere  Heaven  to  wear  it? 

Be  patient  my  spirit, 

This  one  thing  remaineth — 
Thy  duty, 

Full  measure  that  each  life  containeth, 
Though  faithfulness  merit 

More  sweet  and  less  bitter. 
Yet  small  will  it  matter, 
The  beauty, 

The  pride  and  success  that  the  faithless  inherit 
To  the  cross  purchased  crown,  when  'tis  Heaven  to  wear  it. 


A  RETROSPECT 

They  who  enjoy  most  suffer  most  life's  woes, 

And  ecstasies  come  not  alike  to  each, 

One  little  knows 

What  heights  and  depths  another's  soul  may  reach. 

Two  travelers  gazing  on  one  common  scene, 
One  sees  a  weed-grown  field  and  threatening  sky, 
The  other  sees  a  thousand  charms  between — 
His  is  the  Artist's  eye. 


THE   ANSWERED    PETITION 

From  the  noonday  cloud  hung  over  the  lone  mount  of  Calvary 
Hark!  a  human  voice  that  speaketh  in  its  human  misery 
From  a  bursting  heart  that  throbbeth  in  its  mortal  agony : 
"When  thou  cometh  to  thy  kingdom,  Lord,  remember  me." 

Listen  in  soft  notes  of  music  upward  floating  to  the  skies, 
Where  the  sun  his  glorious  splendor  to  a  guilty  world  denies ; 
Lo,  a  voice  of  matchless  sweetness  to  the  prayer  of  faith  replies, 
Gently  saying :  "This  day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise." 

O  my  soul's  lone  cross  of  torture !    O  my  guilt  and  agony ! 
Gazing  upward  through  the  darkness,  lo,  another  cross  I  see 
Close  beside  it  in  the  shadow,  this  my  spirit's  only  plea : 
"Jesus,  Jesus,  in  thy  kingdom,  oh,  remember  me!" 

And  from  that  lone  cross  of  anguish  where  for  you  and  me  He 

dies, 

While  the  sun  his  glorious  splendor  to  a  guilty  world  denies, 
In  low  tones  of  love  and  mercy  lo,  that  holy  voice  replies 
Gently  saying :  "This  day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise." 

For  a  thousand  years  of  waiting  in  His  sight  are  as  a  day, 
At  whose  word,  eternal  ages,  all  unmeasured  glide  away; 
While  before  His  cross  of  crosses  all  our  weight  of  care  we  lay 
Evermore  in  faith  believing  with  the  dying  thief  to  pray : 

"Jesus,  Jesus,  I  am  trusting,  trusting  only  thee; 

Jesus,  Jesus,  in  Thy  kingdom,  oh  remember  me !" 

While  in  wondrous  love  and  mercy  still  that  holy  voice  replies, 

Gently  saying:  "This  day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise." 


[487 


ROSEBUDS 

Impatient  children,  we,  who  cannot  wait 
For  time  and  sunbeams  to  unfold  the  buds, 
We  spoil  His  roses  when  we  try  to  bloom 
These  plans  of  God's. 

These  perfect  plans,  all  folded  close  and  tight 
From  curious,  prying  eyes, 
Waiting  for  God  to  say :  "It  shall  be  light," 
And  give  us  sweet  suprise ; 

For  certain  as  the  velvet  buds  unroll 
To  charm  our  eager  gaze, 
God  shall  unfold  each  sunbeam-painted  scroll 
Writ  with  His  mysteries. 

Shall  we  make  blighted  and  distorted  things 
(God's  good  work  ruined  by  a  human  hand) 
Of  that  which  might  become,  we  cannot  think 
How  beautiful  and  grand? 


[488] 


A  VOICE  FROM  HEAVEN 
(Rev.  14:13.) 

I  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven  saying : 

(The  loud  world  did  not  hear)  ; 

My  soul  was  sad,  alas!   too  sad  for  praying, 

Tired  of  the  drama  that  old  Time  was  playing, 

Too  sad  for  thought,  smile  or  tear; 

Then  to  my  soul  a  vision  sweet  was  given, 

I  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven. 

Ah !  had  the  skeptic  in  that  vision  solemn 

Then  stood  with  me  and  heard 

That  sweet  interpretation  of  the  Word, 

That  voice  from  Heaven  that  floods  each  broken  column 

Of  human  life  with  light  divine  and  solemn ; 

Alas !  to  those  alone  who  knock  is  given 

To  stand  a  moment  in  the  light  of  Heaven. 

Sometimes  the  world  stops  carelessly  to  hearken 
Where  Death  with  sable  wings  her  borders  darken, 
And  the  grand  language  of  God's  revelation 
Links  heart  with  heart,  and  Nation  unto  Nation, 
My  soul  almost  her  earthly  chain  had  riven 
I  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven. 


[489 


MARGUERITES 

There  are  many  gayer,  costlier  blooms, 
And  blossoms  more  replete 
With  gaudy  colors  and  rare  perfumes, 
But  all  love  the  marguerite. 

They  are  such  useful  little  flowers, 

No  other  could  fill  their  place, 

With  the  mingling  rays  of  their  pearly  stars 

In  garland  or  wreath  or  vase. 

We  have  cut  their  slender  stems  to  adorn, 
God's  house  of  praise  and  prayer ; 
We  have  seen  their  fragile  blossoms  worn 
To  the  grave  to  perish  there. 

In  cross  and  garland,  in  spray  and  wreath, 
We  have  wound  each  slender  stem ; 
For  the  hall  of  mirth  and  the  house  of  death 
Are  open  alike  to  them. 

They  have  shone  like  stars  on  the  festive  crowds 
In  brilliantly  lighted  rooms; 

They  have  waved  in  snowy  breeze-blown  clouds, 
O'er  silent  and  shaded  tombs ; 

In  France  our  blossom  so  modest  and  sweet 
Is  not  without  honor  and  fame, 
Since  the  beautiful  princess,  Marguerite, 
Gave  the  little  flower  her  name. 

And  the  nobles  of  England  wore  wreaths  of  it, 
And  on  robes  of  princely  price 
Embroidered  the  flower  of  Queen  Margaret, 
Their  lovely  queen's  chosen  device. 

[490] 


Then  bring  to  the  scenes  of  mirth  or  gloom, 
Where  the  young  and  the  aged  meet, 
The  flower  that  has  faded  on  throne  and  tomb — 
The  beautiful  marguerite. 


THE  CLIMBERS 

You  have  reached  the  top  of  your  earthly  stair, 
You  must  soon  descend,  descend, 
He  must  be  content  to  climb  with  care, 
Whose  ladder  hath  no  end. 

The  climbers  for  wealth  and  earthly  fame 
Will  leave  him  below,  below; 
He  climbeth  to  write  an  immortal  name, 
An  unending  life  to  know. 

Then  rise  to  thy  choice  of  a  worldly  crown, 

Thy  zenith  is  found,  is  found; 

He  pities  thee  climbing  the  endless  way, 

Though  he  stand  on  the  lowest  round ; 

His  pathway  is  up  and  up  and  up, 

And  thine  to  the  ground,  the  ground. 


[491] 


OUR  AFFLICTIONS 

(In  all  their  afflictions  He  was  afflicted  and  the  angel  of  His 
presence  saved  them. — Isaiah  63:9.) 

From  that  high  Heaven  so  beautiful  and  pure, 
Canst  Thou  look  down  and  see 
The  bitter  agony  that  souls  endure; 
Oh,  is  it  aught  to  Thee? 

Dost  Thou  not  shrink  from  scenes  of  sin  and  woe, 
O  King  upon  Thy  throne? 
And  all  forget  this  suffering  world  below, 
Remembering  Heaven  alone? 

Ah,  my  afflictions!    Every  one  is  Thine! 

The  angel  of  Thy  presence  in  my  breast 

Makes  this  dark  world  Thine  own,  Thy  Heaven  mine, 

And  mingles  Heaven's  own  peace  with  earth's  unrest! 


A  LIFE  WORK 

Yes,  life  is  too  short  to  be  wasted  in  trifling, 

And  time  is  too  precious  to  spend  in  regret; 

Look  up,  though  the  past  has  been  hopeless  and  clouded 

There  is  much  in  the  future  worth  living  for,  yet ; 

There  is  work  for  the  lover  of  God  and  humanity, 

When  living  souls  perish  with  nowhere  to  cling; 

There  are  golden  sheaves  waiting  for  hands  that  are  ready, 

And  songs  in  the  air  for  the  reapers  to  sing; 

Go  treasure  the  songs  grown  immortal  with  beauty, 

Go  measure  what  kindness  and  mercy  are  worth ; 

For  the  crowns  that  will  sparkle  for  life's  noblest  victors 

Will  not  fade  with  the  withering  laurels  of  earth. 


492 


HE   GIVETH  HIS   BELOVED  SLEEP 

Across  the  sleeper's  dreamless  rest, 
The  chills  of  death  like  shadows  creep ; 
But  pillowed  on  the  Saviour's  breast, 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

Peace,  troubled  ocean  of  despair ! 
Be  still,  thou  ever  raging  deep! 
From  life's  brief  day  of  pain  and  care, 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

Over  the  cradle  of  her  child, 
Love  doth  her  sleepless  vigil  keep; 
While   life's   dark   storm   beats   loud   and   wild, 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

Quenched  is  the  flame  of  mortal  breath, 
Calm  is  the  creature  born  to  weep ; 
Oh  peaceful  rest,  this  is  not  death! 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


493] 


THE  END  OF  LIVING 

Could  I  but  trace  one  star  of  hope 
On  Heaven's  high  scroll,  on  Fear's  cloud  omen 
Through  Faith  and  Reason's  telescope, 
Life's  darkened  future  to  illumine; 

Could  I  but  stamp  one  fadeless  thought, 
On  everything  in  God's  creation; 
Could  I  but  teach  one  lesson  taught, 
To  kindle  nobler  aspiration; 

Could  I  but  write  one  living  truth 
On  human  hearts  to  glow  forever, 
The  zeal  of  manhood,  age  and  youth 
Inspiring  with  a  new  endeavor. 

I'd  write  in  starry  rays,  I'd  blend 

The  one  great  hope  that's  worth  the  giving, — 

Dust  unto  dust  is  not  the  end, 

But  life  to  life  the  end  of  living. 

Dust  unto  lower  dust  consigned, 
Life  unto  higher  life  ascending; 
The  past — forever  left  behind, 
The  future,  vast — unending. 

Behold  the  crowds  of  earth  pass  by, 
One  common  groveling  aim  pursuing; 
To  strive,  to  gain,  to  love,  to  die, 
One  hour  the  plans  of  years  undoing. 

Poisoning  souls  and  intellects, 
That  but  immortal  food  can  nourish, 
On  thought's  decay  and  love's  frail  wrecks, 
On  hopes  and  aims  that  stand  and  perish. 


494 


What  shall  it  profit  us  if  we, 
Whose  hopes  and  longings  are  immortal, 
Gather  each  fragile  flower  we  see, 
To  wither  at  the  future's  portal? 

Did  the  great  Source  of  Life  intend, 
That  death  should  end  its  noblest  striving? 
No;   dust  to  dust  is  not  the  end, 
But  life  to  life  the  end  of  living. 

The  best  success  of  time  to  make, 
Should  be  our  lives'  supreme  endeavor ; 
And  teach  these  jarring  chords  to  wake 
The  prelude  of  the  vast  forever. 

Listen,  oh  myriads  of  mankind! 
The  eternal  anthem  rolls  before  us; 
Soon  will  Time's  prelude  die  behind, 
Drowned  in  the  still  increasing  chorus. 

Height  unto  height  the  notes  ascend, 
Glory  to  glory  ever  weaving; 
Dust  unto  dust  is  not  the  end, 
But  life  to  life  the  end  of  living. 


[495] 


PANSY  FACES 

Oh,  the  funny  pansy  faces, 

With  their  odd  and  wise  grimaces, 

With   their   eyes   so   wide   and   staring, 

And  their  cunning,  witching  ways! 
Oh,  the  pretty  pansy  faces, 
With  their  royal  hues  and  graces, 
Peeping  from  their  shady  places, 

Through  the  spring  and  summer  days ! 

Oh,  the  roguish  pansy  faces, 
And  the  thoughtful  pansy  faces, 
And  the  haughty  pansy  faces, 

What  a  mingled  company! 
Oh,  the  purple  pansy  faces, 
And  the  golden  pansy  faces, 
And  the  snowy  pansy  faces, 

What  a  mottled  crowd  are  they! 

How  I  love  the  pansy  faces, 
Smiling  from  their  shady  places ; 
How  I  love  each  quaint  expression, 

And  each  sprightly  attitude; 
Ever  lively,  glad  and  cheerful, 
Never  gloomy,  sad  and  fearful, 
With  their  merry  little  faces, 

Full  of  love  and  gratitude. 

Oh,  the  jolly  pansy  faces, 

Looking  from  their  brimming  vases, 

Or  from  out  their  shady  places, 

Nodding  to  the  butterflies! 
Pansy  faces  shy  and  saucy, 
Pansy  faces  gay  and  glossy, 
Captivating  every  passer, 

By  the  magic  of  their  eyes. 

[496] 


NO  HOPE 
1885 

No  hope?    Yes,  it  is  said  there  is  no  hope; 

O  woman,  with  thy  patient,  pleading  face, 

Is  there  no  hope  beyond  the  tomb  for  thee? 

No  hope  beyond  the  coffin's  cold  embrace? 

No  hope?    Alas,  the  verdict  must  be  true, 

And  Death  has  set  his  seal  upon  thy  brow ; 

But  is  there  no  star  left  in  thy  dark  sky, 

No  promise  in  the  future  for  thee  now? 

Listen,  the  Christmas  bells  are  ringing  yet; 

Look,  the  dark  sky  is  set  with  many  a  gem; 

Read  in  their  sweet  and  gentle  ministry 

The  story  of  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 

Read  of  the  cross  and  lonely  sepulcher, 

Read  of  the  glorious  resurrection  morn, 

Then  listen  while  the  silver  bells  repeat: 

"To  you  in  Bethlehem  a  King  is  born;" 

Then  ask  with  faltering  breath:  "Is  there  no  hope?" 

No  hope  ?    To  you  immortal  hope  is  given, 

The  faithful  star  of  Bethlehem  still  shines, 

To  make  thy  hopeless  grave  a  gate  to  Heaven. 


[497] 


ABUTILON    BELLS 

Ring  little  bells  from  your  leafy  towers, 
Ring  for  the  fairies,  ring  for  the  flowers, 

Ring  for  the  sad  and  gay ; 
Never  a  sound  from  your  belfry  near, 
Borne  on  the  frolicking  breeze  I  hear, 

Yet  I  dream  that  a  tiny  fay 
Lightly  leans  from  the  stem  of  a  leaf, 
And  the  chime  of  joy  and  the  toll  of  grief, 

And  danger's  stirring  knells, 
Are  heard  by  the  bright  geraniums, 
By  the  heliotropes,  daisies  and  cyclamens, 

From  your  little  swinging  bells. 

Ring  little  pink  bells  in  the  showers, 
Ring  for  the  revelry  of  the  flowers, 

In  the  growing  time  of  Spring; 
For  the  fuchsias  in  their  stately  halls 
Are  robed  for  the  fairies'  moonlight  balls, 

Where  the  merriest  crickets  sing; 
And  the  pansies'  dewy  faces  glow 
With  the  fresh  young  life  in  their  roots  below, 

And  sipping  their  dew-drop  wine, 
The  butterfly  is  the  sweet  pea's  guest, 
And  the  bumble-bee  in  his  Sunday  best 

Sits  down  with  the  rose  to  dine. 

Chime  little  golden  bells  your  strain, 

For  the  primrose  sweet  in  her  fringed  white  train 

Is  the  bride  of  the  tuberose  tall ; 
The  hyacinths  stand  by  the  tuberose's  side, 
And  the  pink  primroses  wait  by  the  bride, 

And  the  cactus  lists  your  call; 


[498] 


And  the  lofty  calla  stands  in  state, 
At  the  nuptials  gay,  to  officiate, 

And  the  march  aeolian  swells, 
And  the  proud  narcissus  bows  and  bends, 
And  all  the  hosts  of  the  flowery  friends 

Rejoice  with  the  golden  bells. 

Clang  little  red  bells,  lightly  swung, 
Ring  what  larger  bells  have  rung, 

Danger's  swift  alarm ; 
For  old  Jack  Frost  in  his  armor  cold 
Is  coming  to-night  with  his  armies  bold, 

And  he  brings  but  death  and  harm. 
O  loveliest,  frailest,  tenderest, 
You  will  he  have  though  he  spare  the  rest; 

List  to  the  timely  knell, 
Come  in  from  the  threatening,  frosty  air; 
Let  the  light  of  the  coming  morn  declare, 

What  the  stricken  cannot  tell ! 

Toll  little  white  bells,  to  and  fro, 
Sadly  and  slow,  softly  and  low, 

Clappers  of  purest  gold; 

For  the  ghosts  of  dead  blossoms  are  everywhere, 
The  beautiful  and  sweet  and  fair, 

The  icy  shrouds  enfold, 

Like  a  fragment  bright  of  the  vanished  Spring 
Is  the  greenhouse  warm,  where  your  bright  bells  ring 

From  your  little  leafy  towers, 
Where  safely  kept  from  the  frost  and  cold, 
Through  the  cheerless  winter  the  buds  unfold, 

Of  the  tender,  tropical  flowers. 


[499] 


THE  LITTLE  THINGS  OF  EARTH 

My  heart  grows  often  sad  when  I  review 

At  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 
The  greatness  of  all  I  have  planned  to  do, 

And  the  little  that  I  have  done. 

The  hours  go  on  and  the  days  go  on, 

Though  no  idle,  hours  condemn, 
'Till  the  years,  the  beautiful  years,  are  gone, 

With  so  little  to  show  for  them. 

Day  after  day  hath  its  common  round, 

And  the  moments  have  swiftest  wings; 
Oh,  what  heights  of  ambition  are  lost  and  drowned 

In  the  oceans  of  little  things ! 

The  little  drops,  then  the  large  waves, 

And  at  last  the  mighty  flood; 
They  make  for  the  mountains,  deep  silent  graves, 

In  the  depth's  dark  solitude. 

There's  a  little  bird  of  Trust  that  sings 

That  God  will  make  all  things  right, 
And  perhaps  after  all  the  little  things 

Are  the  greatest  in  His  sight. 


[500] 


LOST 

When  the  last  sunset  ray  has  faded  from 

Life's  troubled  wave, 
And  earth  and  sky  and  yearning  sea  are  dumb, 

That  once  a  solace  gave; 
When  midnight  darkness  gathers  very  near 

Life's  little  shattered  raft, 
And  lips  are  chilled  to  silence  with  their  fear, 

That  in  the  light  have  laughed; 
When  a  great  wreck  of  wordly  hopes  and  aims 
Looms  up  behind  and  we  drift  out  alone 

No  help  to  find, 

Then,  then  the  sinking  Soul  will  realize 
The  need  of  a  great  God  to  hear  its  cries. 


EARTH'S  SORROWS 

You,  who  call  transient  absence  trial  to  you, 

Who    count    a    Christian's    death    earth's    deepest    grief, 

Let  me  declare  to  you  a  heart's  belief: 

That  those  are  sorrows  growing  restful,  sweet, 

With  the  advance  of  time; 

But  there  are  woes 

That  wear  and  scar  and  rend  the  heart  anew, 

Each  day,  or  week,  or  month,  or  fleeting  year, 

They  look  from  eyes  that  shed  no  healing  tear, 

They  draw  the  patient  lines  'round  silent  lips, 

And  freeze  warm  blood  from  heart  to  finger  tips; 

O  living  sorrows !    Would  that  I  could  hush 

You  all  to  sleep,  and  let  the  worn  hearts  rest, 

As  peacefully  as  do  the  Christian  dead, 

With  all  their  sadness  to  the  sun, 

Carved  on  cold  stone  and  silence  overhead. 


[501] 


THE  BLUE  DAISIES  OF  THE  CRAGS 

Looking  out  on  the  restless  sea, 
Gazing  up  to  peaceful  skies, 
Have  they  lent  their  sapphire  hue  to  thee, 
To  glow  at  dawn  in  thine  opening  eyes, 

Beautiful  dweller  on  crag  and  cliff, 

Rooted  firm  in  the  rock's  rude  rift? 

Cold  is  the  rock  where  thy  rootlets  cling, 
Washed  by  the  high  tide's  briny  spray, 
And  the  white  gull  sweeps  with  his  flapping  wing 
Thy  fragile  crown  in  his  watch  for  prey, 
Hovering  over  with  eager  eyes, 
Searching  the  waves  for  his  welcome  prize. 

Come  with  me  to  my  inland  home, 
Blue-eyed  child  of  the  ocean,  come; 
There  the  noise  of  the  breakers'  roar 
Shall  disturb  the  peace  of  thy  dreams  no  more, 

No  narrow  crevice  shall  be  thy  home; 

Beautiful  child  of  the  stern  crags,  come. 

I  have  torn  thee  loose  from  thy  shallow  hold, 
In  another  home  shall  thy  buds  unfold; 
No  more  shall  the  stern,  grey  boulder  wear, 
On  his  grand,  dark  crown  a  gem  so  fair; 
Thy  sapphire  shall  shine  for  another's  pride, 
In  a  warmer  clime  than  the  chill  seaside. 

Transplanted  safe  to  a  deeper  soil, 
Far,  far  from  the  ocean's  loud  turmoil, 
Hast  thou  forgotten  the  cliffs  so  high, 
And  the  mingling  azure  of  sea  and  sky, 

And  the  heavy  fogs  that  thy  thirst  satisfied, 

Or  the  rocky  crest  where  thy  rootlets  did  hide? 

[502] 


But  evermore  in  the  perfect  blue 

Of  thy  fragile  petals'  silken  whorl, 

The  deep  blue  waves  that  thou  bidst  adieu, 

Round  a  silvery  boat  of  fancy  curl; 

And  its  glory  sleeps  in  thy  blossom  heart, 
For  a  fragment  bright  of  the  waves  thou  art. 


MISTAKEN  VALUES 

I  read  a  life  in  a  face,  and  guessed 

That  there's  little  reward  when  we  give  our  best; 

I  saw  a  soul  that  had  counted  small, 

Life's  duty  and  love,  and  its  glory — all; 

And  I  said  to  myself,  'tis  a  strange  disguise, 
When  the  faithful  are  foolish,  the  selfish  wise; 
I  looked  to  my  soul,  from  values  of  earth, 
To  learn  what  was  truly  of  supreme  worth. 

And  I  saw  there  cometh,  not  gratitude, 
Nor  gold,  nor  fame,  but  a  higher  good, 
To  unselfish  lives;  that  unselfishness 
By  its  very  blessing,  itself  shall  bless. 

The  soul  that  would  on  itself  exist 
Will  wake  to  know  it  has  something  missed — 
Something  without  which  it  starves  and  shrinks, 
And  feels  its  loss  while  of  gain  it  thinks. 

Wait'st  for  heaven  to  reward  thy  worth? 
Soul,  thou  art  richer  to-day,  on  earth; 
For  selfish  glory  and  gain  are  small, 
And  duty  and  love  and  truth  are  all. 


[503] 


HAD  I  BUT  WINGS  LIKE  THINE 

Had  I  but  wings  like  thine, 

Free  bird  of  flight, 

To  scale  the  heights  that  only  wings  can  reach, 
Or  steer  my  passage  o'er  yon  seas  of  light, 

Whose  cloudy  beach 
Is  ever  shifting  like  the  sands  of  time! 

Had  I  but  wings  like  thine 

To  soar  between 

Those  airy  deeps  and  lower  deeps  more  real, 
Above  the  wrecks  and  ruins  of  the  main, 

The  joy  to  feel 
Of  freedom  on  unfailing  pinions  mine ! 

Had  I  but  wings  like  thine 

To  visit  lands 

Of  ancient  story  and  undimmed  renown ; 
To  roam  and  rest  beside  those  glittering  strands 

That  ages  crown 
With  words  and  thoughts  that  lustrous  gems  outshine! 

Had  I  but  wings  like  thine ! 

In  yonder  skies, 

Thy  graceful  form  becomes  a  speck  to  view; 
Had  I  but  wings  like  thine  I  would  arise, 

A  bird  of  passage  too, 
To  pass  beyond  this  narrow  prison  line ! 

Had  I  but  wings  like  thine! 

'Tis  vain  to  long; 

Ah!  rather  let  me  feel  those  hidden  wings, 
That  to  a  higher,  broader,  flight  belong; 
Be  mine  a  heart  that  ever  soars  and  sings 

Above  the  wrecks  of  wrong! 


504] 


WHAT  SHALL  IT  PROFIT  ME? 

What  shall  it  profit  me  to  gain 

All  that  this  world  to  man  hath  given, 

If  I  neglect  to  here  obtain 

A  passport  through  the  gates  of  Heaven? 

The  best  success  of  life  to  make, 

Be  this  my  one  supreme  endeavor, 

And  bid  Time's  jarring  chords  awake 

The  prelude  of  the  vast  forever. 

What  shall  it  profit  me  to  earn 

The  meed  of  Fame,  the  applause  of  Nations? 

What  shall  it  profit  me  to  learn 

The  wisdom  of  God's  vast  creations, 

If  Time  with  a  remorseless  sweep 

Shall  blight  the  brightest  hopes  we  cherish, 

If  all,  yea  all,  we  long  to  keep 

With  these  dissolving  temples  perish? 

O  God!  what  shall  it  profit  me, 

Whose  hopes  and  longings  are  immortal, 

To  grasp  each  fading  flower  I  see 

And  leave  them  at  the  Future's  portal, 

To  sell  my  soul  for  worldly  gain, 

To  barter  Hope  for  Pleasure's  bubble, 

To  buy  with  Peace  eternal  pain, 

And  plunge  my  soul  in  endless  trouble ! 


[505] 


THE  VEILED   LAND 

There's  a  land  that  is  veiled  from  our  vision 
A  land  that  is  hid  from  our  sight, 
From  whose  shadow  no  traveler  returneth 
To  tell  us  with  joy  where  it  lies. 

Though  its  curtain  is  rent  for  a  moment, 
For  the  weary  of  earth  to  pass  through, 
We  catch  but  a  gleam  or  a  shadow 
Of  the  land  that  is  veiled  from  our  view. 

O  Christians !     Our  Hope's  golden  anchor, 
Secure  from  the  storm  and  the  gale, 
Is  cast  in  the  beautiful  harbor 
That  lieth  beyond  the  dark  veil. 

Unfurl  the  bright  banner  of  promise, 
Safely  through  the  mists  we  will  sail ; 
For  our  High  Priest  who  passed  on  before  us 
Hath  entered  in  through  the  dark  veil. 


ALDER  CREEK 

Will  I  ever  forget  you,  O  beautiful  stream  ? 
Wherever  I  wander  sometimes  I  shall  dream, 
A  dream  of  cool  waters  that  rippled  and  played 
Or  lay  still  and  restful  in  vistas  of  shade ; 
A  dream  of  old  alder  trees  towering  above, 
Green  branches  with  sunshine  and  shade  interwove, 
And  lily-white  ducks,  as  they  fed  from  my  hand, 
And  children,  who  played  at  my  feet  in  the  sand, 
And  leaves,  that  went  floating  away  with  the  tide, 
As  the  days  of  our  years  oh  so  noiselessly  glide ! 
Will  they  bear  me  from  thee,  is  it  only  a  dream, 
This  life  with  its  changes,  O  beautiful  stream? 

[506] 


ROSEBUDS 

Silken  sachets  of  perfume 
Swinging  in  the  sunny  breeze, 
Viands  in  the  banquet  room 
Of  the  butterflies  and  bees. 

Dainty  ladies  velvet  gowned, 
Or  in  lustrous  satin  dressed; 
Fairy  pictures  thus  abound 
Childish  fancy  might  suggest. 

Oh,  the  poor  unsightly  thing, 
Dwarfed,  distorted,  early  doomed 
Is  the  bud  so  promising 
That  the  dimpled  ringers  bloomed ! 

Dimpled  fingers  cannot  wait 
Till  the  tempting  bud  expands; 
Sudden  wonders  they  create, 
Naughty,  willful,  active  hands. 

Folded  petals  pulled  apart, 
Crimson  satin  backward  pressed; 
Luckless  blossom,  what  strange  art 
Bloomed  you  long  before  the  rest? 

With  your  petals  bruised  and  torn, 
Only  half  your  wonted  size; 
Weary,  sad,  and  so  forlorn, 
What  can  your  defects  disguise? 

Like  the  children,  "we'll  be  good," 
Patient,  while  God's  purpose  grows, 
He  who  formed  the  baby-bud 
Can  alone  perfect  the  rose. 

[507] 


BERRIES 

Berries !  berries !  beautiful  berries  ! 

Wearing  a  charm  ever  pleasing  and  new ; 
Daintiest  food,  fit  for  elfins  and  fairies, 

Born  of  the  sunshine,  the  breeze  and  the  dew. 

Drooping  in  delicate  sprays  of  repleteness; 

Nestling  in  green  leaves,  half-hidden  from  sight ; 
Hanging  in  rich,  juicy  globules  of  sweetness; 

Peeping  up  shyly  to  drink  in  the  light. 

Perched  on  a  twig  is  a  saucy,  red  linnet, 

Beak  dyed  with  carmine,  betraying  his  theft; 

While  birds  of  all  colors,  each  sunshiny  minute 
Feast  on  the  beauties  his  majesty  left. 

Lazuli-finches  and  golden  canaries, 

Hither  and  thither  in  ecstasy  fly, 
Warbling   in  unison    "Berries !  ripe  berries !" 

What  ruby  wine  with  their  nectar  can  vie? 

Laughing-eyed  children,  with  lips  dyed  vermilion, 

And  finger-tips  stained,  the  sweet  secret  have  guessed; 

And  honey-bees  joining  the  merry  cotillion, 
Meet  with  the  birds  at  their  lavish  repast. 

Berries  !  berries  !  bright  luscious  berries  ! 

Ripening  and  melting  the  long  summer  through ; 
No  sheaf-laden  Ceres  such  tempting  spoil  carries ; 

Born  of  the  sunshine,  the  breeze  and  the  dew. 


[508] 


MY    PRAYER 

0  God,  when  I  look  back  upon  my  life, 
And  realize  how  many  things  are  past, 
My  soul  cries  out  to  Thee. 

Leave  Thou  not  me 
Alone,  while  life  shall  last! 

1  fear  the  future  unless  Thou  shalt  keep 

In  Thy  strong  hands,  in  Thy  great  heart  my  fate ; 
For  there  is  none  beside 
Mighty  and  wise  to  guide 
Where  dangers  are  so  great. 

0  God,  unto  me  prove  Thy  ceaseless  love, 
Make  Thou  Thy  promise  known, 
Through  danger's  land 

Hold  tight  my  trembling  hand, 

1  cannot  go  alone! 

Make  straight  these  crooked  paths, 
Bid  light  upon  this  dark  night  break, 
Inspire  with  trust 
This  trembling  heart  of  dust 
That  Thou  will  not  forsake. 


This  life  is  but  the  prelude  of  the  next, 
Whose  endless  melodies  harmonious  sweep 
In  notes  of  triumph  borne  from  height  to  height, 
And  waves  resounding  on  from  deep  to  deep. 


509] 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS 

Out  of  the  dark,  dark  earth  the  lily  blooms  so  white, 
The  stars  shine  brightly  through  the  dark,  dark  night; 
Thus  from  this  dark,  dark  grief  as  from  the  sod 
May  spring  the  fair  creations  of  my  God. 

O,  can  I  wait!    Can  I  have  faith  to  trust, 
Whose  lilies  lie  forgotten  in  the  dust, 
Whose  stars  have  faded  amid  clouds  and  tears, 
'Till  God  shall^  write  His  rainbow  on  the  years  ? 

And  yet  as  surely  as  His  word  is  true, 

Sure  as  the  lily  breaks  the  cold  earth  through, 

Sure  as  the  stars  burst  through  the  black  cloud  rift, 

Up  through  this  dark,  dark  grief  God's  hand  can  lift. 

Some  new  creation  not  yet  understood, 
But  than  my  dreams  more  beautiful  and  good ; 
High  as  the  stars  that  dark,  dark  night  have  crowned, 
Pure  as  the  lily  from  the  dark,  dark  ground. 


[510] 


THE    HEAVENLY    MANSIONS 

Eye  hath  not  seen  those  glittering  towers, 
Ear  hath  not  heard  those  songs, 
But  endless  praise  and  fadeless  flowers 
To  that  bright  realm  belong. 

There  never  a  weary  tear  shall  start 
Of  pain  or  grief  or  care ; 
There  is  my  treasure  and  my  heart 
And  all  my  hope  is  there. 

O  mansion,  grand,  imposing  pile 
Of  masonry  and  art, 
Tower  in  thy  pride  a  little  while 
But  prison  not  a  heart! 

Let  not  earth's  richest,  happiest  lot 
Life's  higher  aims  assuage, 
And  make  the  spirit  treasure  not 
Its  nobler  heritage. 


SUMMER 

Summer,  O  beautiful  Summer! 
Sunshine  and  sea-breeze,  green  earth  and  blue  sky, 
Bees,  buds  and  blossoms,  tall  ferns  and  low  mosses 
Wreathing  with  beauty  life's  silent  gray  crosses, 
Summer,  sweet  Summer,  I  bid  you  good-bye. 

Shall  I  come  back  to  you  ever,  oh  ever? 
No,  you  are  dead  as  the  flowers  I  have  pressed ; 
These  like  sweet  memories  of  you  I  have  carried, 
While  in  the  past  my  sweet  Summer  is  buried 
From  the  fair  garlands  that  lay  on  her  breast. 


ONE   AND    ANOTHER 

One  is  searching  in  the  highways 
For  a  budding  life  to  blight, 
One  is  toiling  in  the  byways 
For  a  soul  that's  lost  in  night, 
Pointing  to  the  distant  skyways 
Where  God's  stars  are  still  in  sight. 

One  a  country's  law  is  making 
On  a  high  and  noble  plan, 
While  another  one  is  breaking 
All  the  laws  of  right  he  can ; 
Bold,  defying  and  forsaking 
The  commands  of  God  and  man. 

One  in  battle  wounds  his  brother, 

Leaves  him  bleeding  on  the  field, 

Far  from  friends  and  home  and  mother, 

Mercy  vainly  hath  appealed; 

Yet  with  tenderest  care  another 

Binds  his  wounds  till  they  are  healed. 


A    FAREWELL 

Farewell,  but  oh,  where'er  you  go, 
O'er  rolling  land  or  surging  sea, 

Remember  that  the  same  blue  sky 
As  one  roof  covers  you  and  me! 

And  when  the  morning  sunbeams  shine, 
Night's  gloomy  darkness  to  dispel, 

Think  that  the  same  bright  beams  are  mine, 
And  morn  has  dawned  for  me  as  well. 

And  when  the  evening  stars  arise 
To  set  the  skies'  supernal  blue, 

Look  up  and  think  while  daylight  dies 
That  I  am  looking  at  them  too. 

Farewell,  but  oh,  where'er  you  go, 
O'er  rolling  land  or  surging  sea, 

Remember  that  the  same  blue  sky 
As  one  roof  covers  you  and  me ! 


A  SONG  OF  JOY 

My  heart  is  full  of  thankfulness, 

My  soul  o'erflows  with  song, 

My  mind  has  caught  some  unknown  notes 

That  to  the  birds  belong; 

I  find  no  language  for  my  tune, 

No  utterance  to  my  praise, 

Only  a  sweet  forgetfulness, 

A  breath  of  sunny  days. 

I'll  fling  my  song  away  from  earth, 

It  can  no  language  wear, 

My  praise  shall  seek  the  angel  choir 

And  find  an  echo  there. 

[513] 


ESTELLA 

Chapter  I 
(The  ballroom) 

A  mingling  of  soft  colors  and  the  sound 
Of  footsteps  echoing  to  a  rapturous  strain, 
The  rustle  of  rich  silken  robes,  the  air 
Perfumed  with  flowers,  awoke  the  notes  again 
And  bore  them  out  upon  the  balmy  breeze; 
The  light  of  laughing  eyes,  of  merry  hearts, 
The  gleam  of  jewels  clasped  in  waving  hair 
Spake  but  of  Pleasure  and  of  Beauty's  reign 
While  flew  the  unmeasured  moments  unaware. 

To  the  gay  revelers  who  thronged  the  hall 
Forgotten  were  the  problems  of  the  day, 
Care  fled  like  darkness  from  the  tapers'  glance, 
Light,  jest  and  laughter  filled  the  thoughtless  hours 
While  light  feet  caught  the  spirit  of  the  dance, 
And  so  the  eve  flew  onward  to  the  dawn. 

A  group  beneath  a  canopy  of  flowers 

Gathered  around  the  ballroom's  reigning  belle, 

From  her  acknowledged  throne  she  viewed  her  slaves 

And  held  them  captive  by  a  magic  spell 

While  her  devotees  worshiped  at  her  shrine. 

Her  brown  eyes,  pensive  first  and  almost  sad, 

Bright  as  gems  or  twinkling  as  the  stars; 

Her  wand,  a  lily  clasped  in  dimpled  hands, 

Her  hair  fantastically  wreathed  with  flowers 

Seemed  to  have  caught  its  lustre  from  the  sun, 

Flattery  fell  like  music  on  her  ear; 

She  spoke  and  many  doubting  hearts  admired, 

She  smiled  upon  the  captives  she  would  win; 


[SHI 


She  conquered  and  each  dim  distrust  expired 
And  satisfied  she  held  them  in  their  chains, 
Held  them,  until  tired  of  their  servitude 
She  snapped  the  subtle  chains  and  turned  aside 
To  win  some  other  heart  on  which  her  charms 
Had  been  before  unwasted  and  untried 
And  left  them  hopeless,  ruined,  in  despair. 

Thus  had  she  lived,  success  she  boasted  hers 

And  loved  the  life  of  coquetry  she  led, 

And  counted  with  exultant  victory 

The  hearts  whose  love  for  her  had  long  been  dead, 

Some  in  a  real,  some  in  a  living  grave. 

No  pangs  seemed  ever  to  disturb  her  calm, 

Mercy  was  not  to  her  a  transient  guest, 

Estella,  ever  gayest  of  the  gay, 

With  countless  fascinating  talents  blest, 

Was  said  by  many  to  possess  no  heart. 

She  reigned  a  feared  yet  a  resistless  queen, 

No  other  dared  with  her  rare  charms  compete; 

She  caught  her  victim  with  a  smile,  a  glance, 

She  left  him  in  the  dust,  low  at  her  feet 

And  mocked  his  frail  endeavors  to  arise. 

Ah,  fair  Estella!     Can  that  lovely  smile 

Dimpling  the  cheek- and  pearly  brow  of  youth, 

So  like  the  innocence  it  should  have  been, 

Be  but  the  masking  of  a  dread  untruth, 

A  thing  of  base,  despised  hypocrisy? 

Can  those  fair  words  in  cadence  soft  and  sweet, 

Befitting  to  a  soul  exalted,  high, 

Be  but  a  garment  by  dark  falsehood  worn, 

Or  but  a  covering  of  a  hidden  lie, 

A  snare,  a  gilded  cloak  of  vile  deceit? 

'Tis  hard  to  think  yet  it  is  even  so. 

Thy  bud  of  promise  faded  ere  it  bloomed, 

[515] 


Thy  purity  that  might  have  been  thy  crown 
Is  in  the  grave  of  selfishness  entombed, 
Thy  youth  devoted  at  the  shrine  of  pride ; 
We  leave  thee  in  thy  thoughtless  revelry, 
Surrounded  by  the  glories  of  a  day, 
Smiling  and  beautiful  as  any  queen, 
Amid  the  alluring  brightness  of  display, 
Gracefully  joining  in  the  giddy  dance. 

Chapter  II 
(After  the  dance) 

The  lights  had  vanished  from  the  deserted  hall, 
The  floral  festoons  wither  where  they  hang, 
Unbroken  silence  reigns  supremely  where 
Before  glad  sounds  and  merry  music  rang, 
And  overhead  the  moon  looks  coldly  down. 
Unbroken  save  by  the  night-owl's  hideous  screech, 
And  now  and  then  a  cart  that  rattles  by, 
The  houses  stand  like  dense,  unbroken  clouds, 
In  the  pale  light  the  moon  and  stars  supply, 
And  in  the  east  the  roseate  peep  of  dawn. 

A  sad,  mysterious  air  pervades  the  place, 

The  banquet  hall  when  all  the  guests  depart, 

Reminds  one  of  a  lonely  sepulcher, 

Hiding  within  it  a  once  joyous  heart, 

And  keeping  silent  vigil  o'er  the  dead ; 

But  where  is  now  the  ballroom's  beauteous  queen? 

She  sits  alone  beside  a  glowing  hearth, 

Not  with  the  radiant  smiles  and. sunny  air, 

By  which  she  shone  within  the  hall  of  Mirth, 

For  none  are  near  to  praise  her  loveliness. 


516 


Weary  and  petulant,  she  languidly 

Watches  the  smoldering  embers,  'till  at  last 

The  clock's  shrill  voice  intrudes  upon  the  muse, 

Reminding  her  that  time  is  flying  fast ; 

And  calling  to  the  mystic  land  of  dreams, 

The  sunbeams  struggle  through  the  window  blinds, 

And  play  for  hours  upon  the  chamber  wall ; 

They  strive  to  wake  the  dreamer  from  her  sleep, 

But  all  in  vain ;  she  does  not  heed  their  call, 

And  so  the  morn  wears  onward  to  the  noon. 

At  last  she  wakens  from  a  troubled  dream, 

The  day  far  spent ;    a  linnet  in  the  oak 

That  shades  her  room  trills  forth  a  joyous  lay ; 

The  song  no  echo  in  her  soul  awoke, 

For  Nature  held  no  varied  charms  for  her ; 

Sauntering  out  along  the  garden  walk 

Sweet  with  the  perfume  of  a  thousand  flowers, 

She  does  not  realize  how  fair  they  are ; 

Her  mind  is  busy  in  the  by-gone  hours, 

Rehearsing  Fashion's  fascinating  toys. 

The  sunbeams  kiss  the  violets  at  her  feet, 

The  lilies  tremble  as  she  passes  by, 

The  daisies  from  their  beds  of  living  green 

Strain  their  bright  eyes  to  view  the  clear  blue  sky, 

The  divers  feed  with  fleecy  Summer  clouds. 

She  passes  slowly  on  and  comes  at  last 
To  a  cool  Summer-house  o'errun  with  vines, 
And  sinks  down  on  a  sheltered  rustic  seat; 
Over  her  head  the  fragrant  jasamine  twines, 
And  sports  its  snowy  blossoms  in  the  breeze, 


[517] 


But  heeding  not  the  beauty  'round  her  spread 
Turns  to  the  novel  in  her  idle  hand, 
And  soon  is  lost  to  all  the  world  without, 
Roaming  within  some  fancied  fairyland, 
Mingling  with  heroines  of  charmed  romance. 

The  story  done,  she  lays  the  book  aside, 
And  o'er  her  face  falls  an  unpleasant  cloud, 
As  conning  some  deep  problem  in  her  mind, 
Unconsciously  she  speaks  her  thoughts  aloud, 
Thoughts  not  unlike  the  cloud  her  features  wear : 

"Shall  I  be  baffled  by  a  simple  child, 

In  this  one  conquest  I  have  vowed  to  win  ? 

I  shall  have  my  way  and  gain  my  ends, 

I  never  fail  in  what  I  once  begin; 

Estella,  shall  yet  be  a  rival  there, 

He  would  avoid  me,  yes,  'tis  well — 

He  knows  his  weakness,  but  I  know  my  power — 

She  trusts  him  in  her  simple  innocence, 

But  she  will  live  to  hate  and  rue  the  hour 

When  she  presumed  to  wander  in  my  way ; 

I  will  accomplish  what  I  have  begun, 

What  beauty  and  what  wit  have  failed  to  do, 

And  they  have  very  seldom  failed  before, 

Scheming  and  stratagem  shall  carry  through; 

Yes,  I  will  try  the  merits  of  my  plan." 

With  a  low  laugh  she  rises  from  her  seat, 

And  leaves  the  garden  wrapped  in  solitude; 

The  birds  have  hushed  their  merry  twitterings ; 

And  o'er  the  flowers  the  twilight  shadows  brood ; 

The  sun  has  said  "good-night"  and  set  behind  the  hills. 


Chapter  III 
(Lucia) 

All  day  the  rain  fell  in  a  tedious  drizzle, 

All  day  a  dreary  wind  blew  cold  and  chill, 

The  very  air  seemed  clouded  with  depression, 

Weighed  down  with  doubts  and  murmurings  until 

The  glorious  sun  burst  from  behind  a  cloud, 

For  a  brief  moment  glancing  on  the  raindrops, 

Setting  the  dripping  roofs  aglow  with  light, 

Making  bright  gems  of  every  pearly  crystal, 

Painting  sweet  Hope  upon  the  clouds  of  night, 

In  the  bright  bow  that  spanned  the  impending  gloom; 

Only  a  moment,  then  a  cloud  came  over 

And  hid  the  vision  in  its  misty  fold, 

Shutting  the  bright  transforming  gates  of  beauty, 

Leaving  but  raindrops  for  the  gems  of  gold, 

Erasing  the  great  Artist's  marvelous  lines. 

Lucia  stood  watching  the  slow  rain  falling, 

Gazing  with  a  sense  of  awe  upon  the  change, 

Such  a  brief,  unexpected  transformation 

Wakened  her  mind  to  feelings  new  and  strange; 

And  then  the  transient  inspiration  vanished 

Almost  before  she  realized  its  beauty, 

Almost  before  the  fullness  of  its  dawn; 

She  looked  and  lo,  the  clouds  were  touched  with  glory, 

She  looked  and  lo,  the  shining  bow  was  gone, 

And  the  dark  clouds  hung  heavy  as  before ; 

But  with  it  went  her  hopelessness  and  sadness, 

And  the  deep  crushing  weight  of  untold  grief, 

Leaving  instead  a  promise  for  the  future; 

O  Vision,  thy  existence  was  but  brief, 

But  thy  sweet  influence  cannot  be  forgotten ! 


519 


She  stood  a  moment  with  her  eyes  uplifted, 
Scanning  the  heavens  for  one  last  lingering  sign, 
Or  one  last  token  of  the  wondrous  promise 
Writ  in  the  purest  light  of  trust  divine, 
And  looked  upon  by  eyes  undimmed  by  sin ; 
Then  sitting  down,  burst  into  bitter  weeping, 
Shedding  the  tears  that  long  refused  to  flow, 
But  had  been  falling  drop  by  drop  unnoticed, 
Wearing  away  with  steady  steps  but  slow 
The  youth  and  gladness  of  her  fresh  young  heart. 

A  letter  lay  upon  her  open  desk, 

A  letter  not  yet  sealed,  a  little  ring 

Lay  glittering  by  it  in  the  shadowy  light; 

Why  had  the  presence  of  that  sable  wing 

Left  on  this  fair  young  head  its  withering  blight? 

Alas !  the  fairest,  frailest  barque  must  meet  the  storm ! 

At  last  she  rises  with  a  fresh  resolve, 

Rises  as  one  braced  for  a  coming  blast, 

Firm  is  the  hand  that  seals  a  just  decree, 

Calm  is  the  soul  whose  victory  is  past, 

Who  soars  triumphant  on  the  wing  of  Faith ; 

The  shades  of  night  fall  silently  about  her, 

O,  do  not  wake  her  from  her  peaceful  sleep ! 

O,  do  not  wake  sweet  dreams  to  real  trials ! 

O,  do  not  wake  the  tearless  eyes  to  weep! 

Hush !  let  no  footfall  break  her  calm  repose ; 
What  is  this  thing,  this  quiet  rest  from  troubles, 
This  sweet  forgetfulness  of  tempests  past, 
This  blessed  gift  to  soul,  to  mind,  to  body? 
O,  do  not  break  it,  'tis  not  long  to  last, 
Let  the  tired  spirit  slumber  while  it  may ! 
Yes,  it  will  if  when  the  heart  is  burdened, 


[520] 


Consciousness  wanders  into  sweet  repose, 
For  lost  in  sleep  Nature  finds  strength  and  courage, 
And  for  a  time  the  heart  no  anguish  knows, 
While  mind  and  soul  regain  their  wasted  strength. 

Yes,  let  her  sleep,  assured  that  she  will  waken 

Better  prepared  life's  arduous  tasks  to  meet, 

Better  prepared  to  find  in  paths  of  duty 

True  pearls  of  happiness  strewn  at  her  feet; 

Poor  tired  child,  thy  idol  was  but  clay ; 

May  loving  guardian  angels  'round  thee  hover, 

And  twine  their  sweetest  garlands  through  thy  dreams ; 

What  though  the  morn  beheld  but  heavy  clouds, 

The  starlight  floods  the  night  with  holiest  beams ; 

Surely  at  eventide  it  shall  be  light! 

Chapter  IV 
(Despair) 

Alone  in  the  twilight  with  thoughts  for  companions, 
He  walks  to  and  fro  like  a  sentinel  guard ; 
Once  hopeful  and  handsome,  but  now  every  feature, 
With  a  settled  despair,  like  a  heavy  cloud,  marred ; 

A  hopelessness,  pitiful  in  one  so  youthful, 

Seems  taking  possession  of  body  and  soul ; 

No  music  can  lift  the  dark  shroud  from  his  spirit, 

No  friend  can  the  stone  from  its  sepulcher  roll. 

Shall  he  go  to  the  one  who  has  trusted  him  fully? 

But  no,  she  can  never  believe  him  again; 

Oh,  why  had  he  traded  true  worth  for  vain  beauty, 

That  brought  at  the  last  but  its  merited  pain ! 


Deserted  by  her  who  has  led  him  to  ruin, 

And  made  of  his  honor  a  hideous  lie, 

He  sees  now  his  unblinded  madness  and  folly 

Standing  out  clear  and  plain  when  the  dream  has  passed  by, 

And  wearily  gropes  for  some  light  in  the  darkness, 
For  some  bow  of  promise  the  storm  to  abate, 
But  not  a  gleam  conies  to  scatter  its  blackness, 
And  in  low,  husky  whispers  he  murmurs :  "Too  late !" 

Too  late ;  oh,  the  darkest  most  horrible  message 
That  ever  chilled  hope  in  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
That  ever  hushed  gladness  to  slumber  forever, 
That  ever  doomed  beauty  to  fade  in  the  grave ! 

Is  there  hope  for  him  yet?     (He  looks  wildly  about  him.) 
No;  not  on  the  land  where  his  day-star  has  set, 
But  perhaps  on  the  ocean,  the  great  surging  ocean, 
Sweet  Mercy  may  comfort  and  solace  him  yet. 

As  the  day  dawn  is  breaking  a  strong  iron-bound  vessel 
Launches  out  from  the  harbor  to  traverse  the  deep, 
A  calm,  peaceful  ocean  lies  tranquil  before  her, 
As  if  tempests  and  breakers  had  fallen  asleep ; 

One  passenger  stands  on  the  deck,  pale  and  haggard, 
Gazing  anxiously  back  to  the  receding  shore, 
As  if  fearing  to  lose  the  last  glimpse  for  a  moment 
Of  the  hills  that  shall  gladden  his  vision  no  more. 

No  kerchief  for  him  flutters  trembling  with  feeling, 
No  loving  farewell  falls  like  balm  on  his  ear, 
But  he  stands  like  a  statue  surrounded  by  mourners, 
And  moves  not  a  muscle  and  sheds  not  a  tear; 


[522] 


But  a  bitterness  deeper  than  tears  or  emotion 
Makes  the  dark  eyes  grow  darker,  the  pale  face  more  white, 
As  the  land  of  his  fathers,  the  home  of  his  childhood, 
Grows  dim  in  the  distance  and  fades  from  his  sight. 

Farewell,  noble  ship,  may  the  waves  bear  thee  onward, 
'Till  in  some  sunny  harbor  thy  anchor  is  cast, 
And  oh,  mighty  deep,  may  thy  wonderful  music, 
Bring  mercy  and  peace  to  the  erring  at  last ! 

Chapter  V 
(The  wreck) 

A  storm  fierce  and  sudden  swept  over  the  waters, 
The  lightning's  red  gleam  glanced  afar  on  the  wave, 
A  mingling  of  voices  in  helpless  appealing, 
A  struggle  in  vain  from  a  watery  grave; 

A  man  clings  alone  to  a  fragment  of  timber, 
His  eye  on  the  tempest,  his  thoughts  far  away, 
Traversing  the  past  with  its  thousand  green  islands, 
And  the  mirage  that  beckoned  his  footsteps  astray. 

The  cold,  chilling  sea-spray  all  glistening  and  sparkling 
Falls  damp  on  his  brow,  but  it  breaks  not  the  chain 
That  binds  him  to  days  that  have  vanished  forever, 
And  wakens  the  dream  of  his  boyhood  again. 

He  thinks  of  the  love  that  for  him  never  faltered, 
'Till  slighted  by  cruel  untruth  and  neglect, 
And  the  heartless  coquette  whose  unprincipled  scheming 
Had  the  hope  of  two  lives  in  an  evil  hour  wrecked; 


[523] 


A  bitter  remorse  for  the  past  and  the  present 

Sweeps  over  his  soul  as  he  faces  his  doom, 

And  with  one  last  look  upward,  one  low-breathed  petition, 

He  welcomes  the  breakers  and  owns  them  his  tomb. 

As  the  eagles  exultantly  sweep  o'er  their  victim, 
So  the  surges  triumphantly  hurl  him  from  sight, 
And  over  the  spot  where  a  thousand  had  struggled, 
The  waves  in  a  transport  of  victory  unite. 

Around  their  lone  graves  no  sad  mourners  shall  gather, 
To  bring  floral  offerings  glistening  with  tears, 
But  the  blue  waves  shall  wreathe  graceful  anchors  and  crosses 
Of  seaweed  and  coral  to  lay  on  their  bier. 

No  dirges  shall  echo  through  aisles  and  through  arches, 
No  gravestones  for  these  shall  stand  lonely  and  grim ; 
But  sleeping  with  those  who  sank  long  years  before  them, 
The  surges  shall  chant  their  funeral  hymn. 

We  might  weep  for  the  weak  could  we  catch  for  a  moment 
A  glimpse  of  the  pearls  in  the  sea's  hidden  crown, 
Where  clasped  to  the  heart  of  the  faithless  and  friendless, 
A  little  gold  band  and  a  ringlet  went  down. 


[524] 


EASTER  LILIES 

They  grew  where  waters  tumbled  down 

In  little  falls  and  whirlings, 

A  canyon,  where  wild  maidenhair 

Grew  thick,  and  little  frog-choirs  sung 

Their  Easter  melodies  among 

The  fern-fronds  green  uncurling; 

Oh,  I  can  almost  see  the  spot, 

So  shaded,  cool  and  stilly, 

Whence  came  the  creamy  delicate 

Sweet  Easter  wild  star-lily ! 


Every  day  is  a  little  life 
To  live  at  our  very  best, 
Every  night  is  a  little  death 
When  the  weary  workers  rest; 
If  we  make  each  day  a  small  success 
The  sum  of  our  days  cannot  be  less. 


Though  scattered  be  my  mortal  dust 
By  worm,  or  wind,  or  wave, 
Oh,  priceless  is  the  Christian  trust! 
My  God  shall  mark  my  grave. 


[525] 


SOMETIME  IN  HEAVEN 

Sometimes  when  the  world  grows  old  and  stale, 

When  our  best  seems  only  to  try  and  fail, 

When  we  raise  up  to  God  the  bitter  cry, 

When  we  sit  in  the  darkness  and  question  "Why," 

Then  comes  an  answer  on  Mercy's  wings, 

To  hover  above  all  these  vexing  things, 

With  its  triumph  of  wrong  and  defeat  of  good, — 

"In  Heaven  earth  shall  be  understood." 


With  freshened  thought  and  heart  more  light, 

To  gain  the  mountain's  rugged  height, 

While  joy  the  pulses  thrill, 

To  see  no  summit  crowned  above, 

To  know,  to  realize,  to  love, 

The  everlasting  hills. 


My  Soul's  a  harp 

Whose  music  never  sleeps 

Through  Summer's  smiles,  through  Winter's  wails  and  weeps, 

Upon  its  pulsing  chords  Life  plays  her  strain 

Of  gladness  or  of  grief,  of  peace  or  pain ; 

My  Soul's  a  harp,  a  golden  harp  to  me, 

Prisoning  Earth's  sublimest  melody. 


[526] 


A  QUESTION 

I  might  have  died  then, 

I,  who  was  so  near 

The  shadowy  entrance  to  the  land  of  peace; 

And  oh,  how  much  of  sorrow  would  have  swept 

In  a  deep  river  o'er  me  where  I  slept ; 

But  no,  someone  prayed  long  and  earnestly 

And  a  white  angel  stooped, 

Or  God's  hand  reached, 

And  drew  me  back  from  rest  that  men  call — death, 

Yes,  drew  me  back  from  rest  to  life's  unrest, 

And  could  it  have  been  best? 


Wake,  Jubal,  wake,  thou  father  of  song! 

Thy  children  mourn,  for  thy  sleep  hath  been  long; 

Gather  the  notes  from  the  vocal  spheres, 

And  sing  of  the  dead  and  the  living  years ; 

Send  the  first  note  from  thine  organ  key 

To  startle  the  centuries  yet  to  be. 


Keep  fresh  the  sweet  legacies,  love,  music,  beauty, 
The  poetry  twined  with  life's  barren  thorn-wreath, 
For  hard  and  bereft  were  the  pathway  of  duty 
With  no  sunshine  above  and  no  roses  beneath. 


527 


THE  BLOOMED  BUD 

Poor,  distorted  little  rose 

Not  yet  ready  to  unclose, 

Who's  to  blame  for  all  your  woes? 

What  impatient  little  sprite 

Wrought   your   ruin    and   your   blight? 

Torn  and  rumpled,  such  a  plight. 

Active  fingers  could  not  wait, 
Sunbeams  were  too  slow  and  late, 
Strangest  wonders  they  create. 


I  saw  a  rosebud  folded  close 
Just  waiting  to  expand, 
Each  petal  of  the  perfect  rose 
Formed  by  an  Artist  hand 
Lay  like  a  tiny  satin  scroll, 
Only  a  sunbeam  could  unroll. 


Faithful  be  the  friends  who  love  you, 
Rainbow  hope  your  clouds  dispel, 
Ever  smile  the  sky  above  you, 
Daily  gladness  with  you  dwell. 


528 


WHERE  TRUE  WISDOM  IS  GAINED 

Not  from  the  schools  of  learning, 
Not  from  the  halls  of  pride, 
Not  from  the  breeze  returning 
Over  the  murmuring  tide ; 

Not  from  the  words  of  sages, 
Not  from  fair  Beauty's  shrine, 
Not  from  the  stores  of  ages, 
But  from  a  source  divine. 

You  may  traverse  the  paths  of  knowledge, 
That  millions  before  have  trod, 
But  if  a  man  lack  wisdom, 
Let  him  ask  of  God. 


My  heart  is  like  the  butterfly, — 
One  Summer  to  anticipate, 
One  Summer  full  of  glorious  things 
Wherein  to  flutter  happy  wings — 
Then  Winter  and  her  fate. 


Lift  up  thine  eyes  unto  the  hills 
Whence  all  thy  help  must  come, 
Thy  path,  so  strewn  with  care  and  ills, 
Is  but  to  lead  thee  Home. 


529] 


CHERRY  TIME 

(In  Santa  Clara  Valley) 

Merrily  mounting  ladder  and  limb, 
The  cherry-picker  swings  his, pail  of  tin, 
The  chimney's  purple  spiral 
Curling  through  the  morning  mist, 
The  wild  rose-linnet's  carol 
From  the  cherry  orchard,  list! 
Ripple  of  laugh  and  repartee 
Vibrating  gaily  from  tree  to  tree, 
Maidens  in  fresh-ironed  calicoes 
Sit  in  the  packing-house  in  rows. 
Merrily  mounting  ladder  and  limb, 
The  cherry-picker  swings  his  pail  of  tin. 


How  often  Virtue  rears  an  humble  stone, 
In  shade  of  Vice's  sculptured  mausoleum ; 
The  greatest  heroes  Truth  has  ever  known, 
Error  and  Ignorance  hastened  to  condemn. 


[530] 


FORGET  NOT  GOD 

One  prayer  my  heart  would  write  in  pearls, 
One  wish  in  gold  or  jewels  bright, 
And  keep  unmoved  when  life's  mad  whirls 
Can  never  hurl  it  from  God's  sight; 

And  this  my  heart's  best  prayer  would  be : 
"My  God,  may  I  remember  Thee !" 

The  dizzy  march  of  all  things  seen, 
The  idle  talk  of  all  things  heard, 
How  high  a  wall  they  build  between 
God's  children  and  His  living  word; 
'Till  wake  they  oft  to  reap  regret 
Among  the  Nations  who  forget. 


Goodness  is  the  only  greatness, 
Titled  Infamy  is  small, 
Just  as  Truth's  the  only  wisdom, 
Error  nothing  learned  at  all. 


[531] 


Whose  is  the  hand  so  masterful  that  touched  to  life  and  being 
Such   wondrous   pictures   everywhere   that   man    is   slow   in 

seeing? 

Wherever  human  feet  have  trod 
Are  beauteous  paintings  wrought  of  God 
In  earth  and  air  and  ocean. 


A  villain  may  be  a  lover, 

A  fraud  brief  service  lend. 

But  it  takes  the  worth  of  this  tired  old  earth, 

To  make  a  lasting  friend. 


Up  rugged  steeps  thy  toilsome  way  must  go, 

If  thou  wouldst  heights  of  endless  sunshine  know. 


[532 


UNIVERSITY 


j;    ^  ___  ^'ORNIA  LIBEAEY, 
BEEKELEY 


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